My Grandma Kept a Notebook Nobody Knew About

three years, I had taken the train to Grandma’s apartment on Park Avenue.

Six o’clock sharp.

I brought soup. Sandwiches. Sometimes groceries, so I could cook while she told me I chopped onions wrong. We watched Jeopardy. We argued over answers. She told me about Grandpa, about young New York, about the mistakes she’d forgiven and the few she hadn’t.

She continue reading …