Our grandmother sits at the formica table, peeling a peach with a steak knife. She sees only vague outlines of us in the doorway.
It was that winter we moved to the farm. Before her hospital bed and amputated feet. Before the snow and poinsettias. When our grandmother knew the shape of my shadow and the soft timbre of my voice. It was that winter I fell through the ice of the irrigation canal, and our mother moved into the basement, finding solace in Southern Comfort.
"Rabbit, is that you?" Grandmother asks me as juice drains between her fingers.