When I was a child, I never had babysitters, I always went to my grandmother's mobile home. She didn't drive after the accident, so her car park was filled with plants she would water in the late afternoon, the glistening water forming a rainbow in the sunlight. In front was a concrete birdbath, always bare and dry. Inside there was a dog and cat, in separate rooms, and I would curl up with the dog in the sun by the window, because the cat made me sneeze. My grandmother and I would sit on the ancient, dusty couches, and toss the pillows back and forth, or play 'Button, button,' or simply shut the blinds, turn off the lights, and watch candlelight dance on the walls. Her home smelled of the animals, turpentine, mothballs, and potpourri. I was too young to appreciate knowing an amazing woman, but when she died, I locked myself in the dark, hot garage of my parent's home and cried for the day.