Order of Harpoons :: Digitalia :: Dobre Vecher (3)

. . .

Grandma is busy.

She explains, "My heart was filled with glass and oil."

It catches fire while she leans close over the stove cooking winter latkes.

Water will not douse it; it only makes it leap and fill her lungs.

We cannot stop it.

"But Grandma," I say, "it's not winter."

It is not winter.

She says, "I feel it in my bones, Dear."

She calls me "Dear." She used to say "My angel."

She has no bones.

She has forgotten.