I’m carrying my grandmother on to the plane. She folds into my arms, light as a bird. She feels warm and tender although she’s mostly bones. All her children, my aunts and uncles and cousins mill about on the tarmac waiting for the flight. It’s a reunion but I’m the only one from my immediate family. The stewardess settles Granma with pillows and blankets in a recliner. She’s content. Great Aunt Rose arrives in a bed complete with IV pole. One cousin suggests we stop halfway for a family meal. We haven’t taken off yet.
This dream, sparked by a pair of short shorts, to wear at the beach. “Daisy Dukes.” Would I dare? Granma suggested (circa 1967) passing her hat to buy me a new pair of shorts because my cutoffs were ragged. Too short for a respectable girl. She was a quiet woman who rarely spoke her mind but she always wore a hat over her crown of braids when she stepped out, even to the bank .