Sufficient

When I think of my grandmother, there aren’t many pictures left that come into my head. She died when I was ten, and ten-years-old is already such a blurry time. Strange how the memories of smell are the strongest. Her life remains tucked away in the most unlikely places. In bolts of fabric folded into closets and chests, waiting to be made into quilts and doll dresses. In biscuit dough kneaded into the lines of your hands, stretched out on...