Cathy greets me with sideways smiles, knowing glances and a gravelly but kind voice every time I go into the newspaper office. Her no-nonsense manner and wise eyes staring up at me through the bangs in her dark gray, shoulder-length page-boy touch something real in me that I feel like we share..
“How is your grandma doing?” Cathy asked from behind the desk as I was signing in.
“Well, actually, she died the day before Thanksgiving,” I said.
“So she’s all better then,” Cathy said. And then that smile started to spread across her face.
“That’s right,” I said, starting to smile (and tear up) myself. “She’s all better know.”