Gramma

By Jacob Lieber

There is a soft pat…pat…pat of water. Shear white curtains lazily drift away from the gentle caress of the warm fragrant spring air. The moon casts a ghostly white light across the smooth surface of Lancaster Lake. A loon calls mournfully. She has grooves in her hands, and on her forehead, and her skin shows the dark marks of the summers spent weeding among the poppies. She slides her feet into two brown leather moccasins, dons her logo free blue ball cap, and hobbles to the door. She grabs her hand carved cane, and her fingers quickly find their familiar smooth, worn homes. Her other hand takes hold of a doorknob that seems colder than it should be, and she slowly slides into the moonlight. She tips her hat as if greeting an old friend and begins walking toward the water.