I want to keep her in my pocket forever.
Fold her gray curls up neatly, stitch the wiry strands into my seams.
Wash once a week, like she did at the beauty parlor. Have her come out fresh again.
I want to remember everything. All the times she called me bubbie. All the times we laughed through something awful. All the inappropriate things she said. All the cuss words, and knowing looks across the table, all the jokes, even through the pain. Her laugh, maniacal and seething. The way she’d fold one leg over the other from her recliner, play…