I don’t talk much, do I, Grandma? You don’t talk at all. Might do you good to talk a little more and not keep everything locked up inside: ideas all in a jumble, things seen and made up, it’s no good at all. You’re right, Grandma. She was right. Stuff I saw all mixed up with stuff I made up. Me acting like I was cool and composed, then tumbling down the stairs.
