The Grandmother's Loop

I found my grandmother's journal, leather-bound and smelling of rot. For sixty years,

she wrote: 'I woke up today. I made breakfast. I lived my

life. Tomorrow I die.' But she lived to ninety-three. The final entry

read: 'The loop is breaking. Someone else must carry it now.'

That night, I had the dream. A shadow figure, holding an hourglass

with black sand, spoke to me without moving. Your grandmother bought you time.

Now the debt transfers to you. Oh my darling, I can't believe it.

You died in a car accident yesterday. My heart is broken.