PHOTO PROMPT © Claire Fuller
My grandmother rocks while her fingers worry the ridges of a pink-hued scallop shell from her shadowbox. She smiles.
“The photos Alice wants are on the clothes bags,” she says.
“Why are you donating everything?”
She shrugs. “Downsizing, Beanie.” Her voice is tinged with sadness? Regret?
She grabs my hand, presses the shell into my palm and closes my fingers over it. “You take the shadowbox. You would have loved your grandpa. Your Danny was like him. You understand me?”
Memories of teenaged boys, lives stolen by wars, and babies born to widows while the world skips along.