When I was seven years old, my great-grandmother died.
I had been told that she was dying, so it wasn’t a sudden event and as my mother sat deeply into her squatting legs in the twilight morning and woke me so many hours before school, I knew what she was going to say.
“Grandma Virginia is dead.”
I rolled over and cried. I cried for the woman who taught me to crochet; for the frail woman in long dresses whom I remembered from summers in Oklahoma.
I cried because I felt that I was supposed to.
But the truth about Virginia Tally is more complicated than simply that she died. Before that death wh...
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