My grandmother saved everything. Everything.
In her kitchen, there were neatly folded piles of aluminium foil underneath the bread in her breadbox. She had a wooden stand to dry out her zip-lock bags once she’d finished washing them.
Part of the fun of holidays was snooping around her library, looking at the issues of National Geographic (you know which ones I’m talking about) and poking through desk drawers.
When she died, we found drawings that the kids of the family had made years and years ago.
Drawings and… other things.
Like the potato-turkey that one of the cousins made.
The potato turkey that he gave her over five years before she passed.
The one that sprouted and started to grow, tucked away in a dark cupboard.
So I guess she really did love us, at least a little. Even though she forgot birthdays, ignored us and never really wanted to see us.
Because she kept the potato-turkey in her cupboard.
