No one questioned my grandmother’s feigned British accent or obscured age. No one question her peculiar fondness for antique dolls she so proudly placed upon a tiny wooden shelf in the living room, all dressed in period clothing and precisely positioned side-by-side; three aligned in front, three aligned in the back. Her house was well-kept and tidy; it consisted of various oddities collected over the years from previous voyages around the world, most derived from her travels in Africa and South America, others from times and places “too long ago to remember.” She was an individual of many contradictions, that being half delusional and realist to the core. She was awfully observant with a memory similar to that of Sherlock Holmes, and a taste for fashion similar to that of royalty. We called her grandma Dee Dee, Mama Dee Dee, or simply, Dee, but she strongly preferred the extravagance of Dee Dee darling.
“One, two, and three…” we’d sat on the couch in the living room. She’d count the dollar bills one by one, putting emphasis on every number, “…four, five, six, and seven…” I’d quietly stare at her hands lift crisp singles from her lap, to mine, a new addition to my weekly allowance. “…eight, nine, ten…” she’d deliberately pause - I couldn’t help but smile, “…eleven! Eleven dollars, eleven years.”
I’d grab the small bundle of cash and fan them out. I was particular about money, no twenties, no tens, no five dollar bills - only singles. “One…” I’d say, pulling individual bills towards myself, folding them over. “… two, three, four…” I’d make a big show of unfolding them then patting them together – only to refold them again.
“How much have you saved up
