I told my grandmother I am afraid and she made that little wave, each plump finger brushing away my worries just the way she’d brush crumbs from around the toaster tray, the way she’d sweep the dog’s dry tracks from the trailer floor. Oh, now, it’s not so bad here, she said, but I am afraid that when I’m gone no one will remember her, her dimpled knuckles, the way her mouth turned down at the corners in a sweet prim frown. No one will put flowers on her grave; even I don’t do that now, but what I mean is, no one will intend to. I told my mother I am afraid she’ll die alone and she laughed out loud: Let’s hope that’s the worst thing coming. I looked down at my own hands, knotted in the dog’s fur, and saw that they are like my father’s, blue-veined and broad, and I stroked my hair, my cheek, with the hand that is most like his, until the dog struggled to get down, until the kettle whistled; then I sat alone at the kitchen table and stirred a cup of tea.