59 us, Gramma and Grampa would stand in their open garage door. It’d be dark, too dark to see words on the pages of my book. We could hear crickets through Mom’s open window and smell night on the chilly air. At the end of the driveway Dad would glance up at the rearview mirror and honk, twice. When I craned my neck to look back, over the duffel bags and coolers piled high in the trunk, I would see Gramma and Grampa silhouetted against warm yellow light, waving, waving, calling goodbyes. Dad would wave once more at his parents’ reflection. Until they were out of sight, the silhouettes waved.
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