I stare at everything I own then put two pairs of jeans into the box. I remember how Nana used to wear linen suits, and how the fabric looked like it forgot she was inside. She was beautiful once, with deep red hair that barely moved when she walked. This, I’d heard from Mom, because Nana stopped coloring her hair in 1998 when the president got impeached. I could picture all of it; her whole life, I mean. The lump of burnt grits on the stove. The prickle of wet grass on her feet in the morning. The damp hem of her skirt after crossing the river on her way to school.

Mom’s sending me away because she’s afraid I won’t have children. She worries about how much family we’ve lost lately. I say, it should be qualitative not quantitative, but she says that’s not the point. In those last weeks, Nana spoke only to me. Said that she liked my pants, my new short hair, the friend I brought by last week. Once, when she was asleep, I told her about Deb, about where my parents are sending me. But mostly, I talked about the house Nana grew up in. The flush of red on the porch during sunset. The sound of the river at three in the morning. How it pushes and pulls against rocks, fallen trees, the garbage that washes downstream. All of it, in the way. And all of it, loud.

Grace Gruebmeyer