Coffee With My Dead Grandmother


I order Americanos, because she always liked the name.
She strokes my hand with pruned fingers.
"How've you been?" I inhale her scent, which is unchanged.
"Could be better."
"Are you proud of me?"
"If I were, you wouldn't need to ask." 
She finishes her biscuit, leaving only a crumb.

This story is by Nod Ghosh http://www.nodghosh.com/about/


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