While prepping the dough, Gran asked me about school and friends, snuck in a question about Mom. I kept a tight lip.

Dad, Gran’s son, snored on the living room couch, sleeping off the excess of the night before.

Gran still blamed Mom for everything even though she should have known better than anyone how it was, living with a drinker.

I was dying for a cup of coffee, but Gran thought young people should drink milk in the morning, so I poured a glass of juice.

She sent me for the raisins.

I pulled the pantry’s light string but the bulb had blown out.

“Is it round or square?” I called out.

“Tall and round!”

She shouted above an endless Johnny Mathis sing-along.

I touched the edges of canisters and tubs and sticky bottles, dreading a mouse’s wet nose sniffing my hand.

Finally, the container Gran described.

I lifted it, felt something heavy shifting from side to side.

“C’mon, Lolly,” Gran said. Lollygagger, slowpoke.

I set the container on a nearby laundry machine, lifted the lid.

There were no raisins in there.

I looked at the thing in my trembling hands.

I’d touched a gun before. It was the surprise of it that shook me.

I returned the container to its place.

“No raisins, Gran, “ I said.

“Have to do without,” she said, touching my cheek before returning her large capable hands to working the dough.

Doing Without

We Find Ourselves Alone Together for the Last Time