Transcript
Speaker: Raspberries at Grandma's by Paul Gabrielson.
Speaker: Why should it be a comfort to taste a raspberry and remember sitting at Grandma's counter on a hard wooden stool eating raspberries and milk, hearing the dog's tag jingle with my feet swinging above the floor? It should hurt. That memory only reminds me that it's all gone now. The dog is gone, the house is gone, and now Grandma is gone.
Speaker: Why do I replay her answering the phone? Oh, hi, Paul, with Philadelphia in her voice. I won't hear it again, even if I call her number, which I haven't yet deleted.
Speaker: Is it because my brain doesn't know the difference between remembering and living? My neurons still hear her on the phone. Somewhere in there, synapses still climb on the cool and smooth rocks in her garden. I have the laundry chute and the under stairs closet in my nose. I have the breezeway gate and the rough finished concrete patio in my ears. Why should it be a comfort
Speaker: Is it because I still feel like my legs are too short for my feet to touch the floor?
