"Are you happy?" my grandmother asks me casually, brushing past on her way to the toilet. Her heels scrape over the floor tiles when she stops and turns around.
Her dark eyes lock on mine. The question is crucial. I know it is.
My grandmother never asks anything. Nothing personal.
She has an identical twin sister. But though they look so much alike, they compare like darkness and light.
My grandmother hates flying. She needs to be firmly connected with the earth. She never tires of walking. She walks miles without taking a rest. I can't hardly follow her on my bike.
One day she was violently stumping down the stairs when she suddenly rested. Sweat was pearling on her forehead. "What's the matter?" I asked. "I'm not ill." She answered, "I have never ever been ill in my life and I intend to keep it that way."
She keeps sugar, flour and canned meat stashed in the cellar. Just in case. A war. It could start all over again.