Memory #12

Late March. An attractive little parcel, filled with trinket toys: lying unwrapped on a table next to the door in the sewing room.

"Muffitt?"

The sewing machine quiets momentarily.

"Yes, Amanda?"

"What's this?"

My grandmother turns. I am pointing at the toys. I hope the desperation doesn't show on my face.

She returns to her work. "It's a present."

"For who?"

"For a girl I know," she says. "I like her a lot."

A long pause, filled with strange humming and clacking noises from the machine. I feel confused and a little jealous. Some girl? This is my grandmother, after all.

"Why?"

"It's her birthday soon."

I think I hear a smile in her voice, but I cannot read between the lines without risking grave misinterpretation. "Oh," I murmur. "When's her birthday?"

"The same day yours is. Isn't that neat?"

For a few more moments I stand in the doorway, watching the back of her head. Then I retreat into the hallway.

Darn it.