I have the best granny in the world, or so says the homemade, brightly colored, baked clay clumsily glued to a safety pin “broach” I made for her in first grade. Constantly levelheaded, and always sensible, my grandma can be found in the front row of every Christmas play, piano recital, and cheerleading competition, bursting with pride for her grandchildren. Each of her co-workers knows by heart the lives of my sisters and myself. “Oh! You’re Mary’s granddaughter,” they say when she introduces me. “Boy have I heard a lot about you!” She drags every person she can club over the head to one of my boring jazz band concerts or just to listen to me play the piano at Lee’s Restaurant and sip coffee. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to return her love or see her happy. Nothing. My grandma is the sort of person who could talk endlessly about nothing and all you would have to do to make her think you’re listening is unconsciously grunt or nod your head every so often – it’s one of her most love...

I had a best friend for 14 years. Together we traveled the country, went for jogs, lived in 3 different states, and relaxed in the evenings. She was my dog, Duchess. I had her for over half of my life. I remember the happy, playful energy she possessed as a puppy. I remember the dread that I used to feel as she grew older, slower, and more and more tired, knowing the day would inevitably come when she was no longer there to listen to me practice the piano or walk with me to Dunkin Doughnuts to get my morning coffee. One evening, I arrived home from a gig in the city to see Duchess in our living room slowly rise from her napping position on the floor to greet me at the top of the stairs. Each move as she unfolded her legs, propped herself up, and walked towards me was more deliberate and painful looking than usual. I ached for her and gave her a reassuring pet, then walked to the bedroom to put down my things. When I came back into the living room, I was struck with terror at the si...