Grandma spoke to ghosts and refused her dentures. She’d shit herself and call us thieves. She said her dying was taking forever and that Grandpa stopped loving her, and both those things were true, but only because Grandpa was dead.
At sundown, she’d turn werewolf.
She’d call me Donald and flash her gums.
I’d go to the garage, disturb Grandpa’s tools, taste corrosion; thumb old magazines, and smell decay. I’d sit amongst rot (avoiding the rot in Grandma’s brain) and tie knots in Grandpa’s sewing kit just to feel closure.
Grandma’s mouth puckered like an asshole.
She’d eventually miss Mass, but never her coffee.