She whispered to the trees, "I'll be back."
Lola read them all in one sitting. They were love letters, fierce and clumsy, written by a girl who signed each one Young Lola . Her grandmother. The same stern woman who had never once mentioned a Marcel, who had taught Lola to make cherry preserves in stony silence, who had died alone in a Brooklyn apartment with a rosary wrapped around her hands.
"Great," she muttered. "Perfect. Wonderful."
The house, predictably, did not answer.
She whispered to the trees, "I'll be back."
Lola read them all in one sitting. They were love letters, fierce and clumsy, written by a girl who signed each one Young Lola . Her grandmother. The same stern woman who had never once mentioned a Marcel, who had taught Lola to make cherry preserves in stony silence, who had died alone in a Brooklyn apartment with a rosary wrapped around her hands.
"Great," she muttered. "Perfect. Wonderful."
The house, predictably, did not answer.