Dickinson, Woolf, and My Nana

As I entered my house, I was confronted with big-band jazz and lively hordes in formal attire crowding my small kitchen. Emily Dickinson stared at me, unamused, as she pulled cookies from the oven. Virginia Woolf paused her conversation a moment to glance my way, melancholy but kind. The thing I remember most brilliantly is my grandmother.

I passed her at the threshold of the hallway. She was dressed in a glamorous red dress and pearl earrings. She was arm-in-arm with my grandfather, but all I could see was her, smiling at him like a movie star.

She looked beautiful.