to catch the memory, but it slipped away before I could reach it.
Audrey seemed almost pleased by my silence. She turned and walked inside.
“What are you going to do, grandma?”
After that, whatever politeness remained between us disappeared.
She began parking inches from the edge of my driveway even when the rest of hers was empty. When her garbage bins somehow migrated onto my side, I rolled them straight back.
If she saw me kneeling among the roses, she would call over, “Still working on your little museum?”
The following Saturday, Audrey’s guests were back on my lawn.
“Still working on your little museum?”
I saw the first car from the kitchen window. Ten minutes later, another pulled in behind it, leaving two deep tracks across the grass I had spent all week trying to repair.
I reached for my shoes. Then I stopped.
I was tired of
