by Sarah Neel

i dont understand how i deserve love. i was born in february and suddenly was wrapped in it. my body carries a million people that i’ll never know. swiss immigrants from ellis island, orphans turned indentured servants, men who died young. i am guilty. my grandma tells me to move my chair so i can lay at the foot of her hospital bed. i do not deserve her. she has suffered a stroke. i am eighteen and scared of disappointing her. i hate being helped and i hate being small, but on christmas day i talk about college like a bright eyed puppy and i am the little one. dad, grandma, and i take our glasses off in the sun and the world is pierced with us. bright blue eyes with a pale blue ring around the iris. hand crafted by some blood related stranger passed down all the way to me. the heart monitor beeps as i tell grandma stories of middle school and high school and summer camp to keep her mind off the metronomic monotony. i ask my dad if shes ok. he doesnt bat an eye when he tells me shes strong. she is eighty-seven. she doesn’t understand me and she loves me. i lay at the foot of the hospital bed and i think about spending a summer in tucson with her, even though i hate the heat. and then i understand.