Gran — You turned ninety-one in March and you told Mum on the phone that you "didn't want a fuss, just August." You said it like they were the same thing. For you, I think they are. I drove up the night before to help set up, the way I have every year since I was old enough to drive. The screen door squeaks on the left hinge now — it has since I was twelve — and I have never once said anything to anyone because fixing it would feel like losing something. Sixty-two Augusts. You are the reason every one of us, no matter how far we've gone, still thinks of this porch when we think of the word "home." I love you very much. — Bridget, the one who made this wall and drove up the night before

