There was no address on it. No name. Just a coffee ring stain in one corner, and the edges worn soft, like it had been opened and closed a thousand times.
“What’s in the envelope, Grandma?”
She didn’t answer.
She just looked out the window at the rain.
The hospital was twenty-eight miles away, down Route 6, through farm country and two little towns that barely had a stoplight between them.
During the drive, Grandma barely spoke.
That wasn’t like her. Grandma is a talker. Usually, when I drive her anywhere, she gives me a running commentary on everything we pass. Whose barn burned down in 1982. Which church has the best fish fry. Which farmer’s son married the wrong girl.
Not that morning.
She just sat there with her hands on that envelope, looking down at it. Every few minutes, she’d smooth the corner with her thumb. Then she’d look out the window. Then back down at the envelope again.
