He’d staggered from the room minutes ago, but the damn thing lingered still, a blanket of shade in an already dark room. I stared into the old TV, now nothing more than a pathetic, wood-paneled box, and wondered, not for the first time, what I was going to do. “Come on, Jamma,” I said, heaving myself off the couch. “Let’s get to bed.” Good start. Get the grandmother to bed. A micro-solution to a micro-problem. The decisiveness felt good. Jamma took a swig of Coke from one hand, then the other. “But I’m thirsty.” “You’re always thirsty,” I said, bending down to grab her under the elbow. “I don’t need help,” she said. “I’m old, but strong as—” “Strong as an ox, I know.” I crossed my arms, smiled as she stood without help. It was true: for a woman her age, she was surprisingly strong. We made a pit stop in the kitchen to set one can of Coke in the fridge, then a pit stop in the bathroom where I helped her sit on the toilet (again, with more than a little admonition).
