Contributor: Corey Cook

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I saw her on my way to work. Another lousy job. And I was late
again. Driving too fast. The road rain-slicked. Plagued by leaves -
angry pockmarks. I saw her outside the general store. Writing

on a chalkboard. HOT COFFEE. My grandmother. A plastic rain
cap preserving her loose salt and pepper curls. The prominent gap
between her two top front teeth. Her easy smile. And warm eyes.
My grandmother. Who cooked me pancakes on Sunday mornings.
Who stood by the sidelines at my soccer games. And cheered. Who

read me picture book after picture book. Who called me by my full
name. Who told me I could pick anything out of her garden as long
as I ate it. My grandmother. Who was buried seventeen years ago.


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Corey Cook's work has recently appeared in The Aurorean, Brevities, Commonthought, Nerve Cowboy, and Smoky Quartz Quarterly. New work is forthcoming in The Germ and Milk Sugar. He lives in Thetford Center, VT.