unpacking

One box is simply labeled "glasses," followed by K's name. It's full of balls of newspaper, which unroll to reveal mismatched festive cocktail glasses. The glass has gone cloudy with age, and we're not really cocktail glass people anyway; we return the glasses to the box.

K's grandmother is small, bent, birdlike; her hair is white and her eyes are bright, bright blue. Her laughter is creaky but infectious. I've been trying to imagine her as a younger woman, laughing and lighthearted, hosting the sorts of parties that would have involved colorful cocktail glasses.