The week is coming to an end. My Week With Gramma. So similar to the Marilyn movie: a white-haired star and her doting companion. Even when I was a child and tried to spend as much time as I could over at Gramma's, we never spent this much time. This is unprecedented. We have let the niceties go, the polite exchanges and charming stories. We are housemates and often sit in silence or eat separately. Our bodies dance and rotate through the corridors of the house; touching, avoiding, familiar with each other's habits. She rubs a natural Vics smelling ointment on my shoulders before she goes to bed. I sit at her feet and lean back against her legs and stay pressed against her long after she has finished.

I know I don't have to leave. But I am still sad that I will go. The lure of friends and the convenience of town is too strong to resist. My work is done. The week is gone.

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