I do like seeing them.
My grandmother made food–peeled and seeded tomatoes, onions caramelized in mint and butter, small chickens seeped in walnut and pomegranate paste–and stacked the house with cookware. When I came to Tehran she took my wrist and pulled me into one of the boulevards because the cars would never halt on their own, she said, you just had to go.
In California she read us Amelia Bedelia and when we were older, told us of her dreams and regrets, plans and pains. But for her a narrative was not something you built out of a lump in your chest. And so, she didn’t.
Anyway, those ribbons seem almost superfluous–I know. But it means the conversation is established, the stories are being told; grandmothers don’t have to bulk up their clothing so no one finds out the great secret. And that, for me, is enough.