I’m ready to reminisce. I let Jenna take the lead.
Some visits, I’m her sister. Other occasions, a granddaughter or niece. One time, she thought I was a teen rival for a boy’s affections.
I’m Jenna’s memories. All tales. All made up.
Why do I keep returning to spin stories for an elderly neighbor I barely know?
Because every visit, before I leave, Jenna pats me on the head and says, “I’m so proud of you, child.”
And then, “I love you.”