She had started with an apology, for she had been tired even though it was only half past ten at that point, but she had planned to leave before eleven. Old Minnie Lennox was a ledgendary character in Old Greenwich, too frail to break an egg but strong enough to have lasted this long, and nobody dared ask just how long she had lasted. Centuries seemed appropriate when you looked at the skin on her hands. She coughed dryily. Most of the kids from round the block had come to the farewell party that they were throwing in my honor, as I made my way back to England after nine years of life in Connecticut, and I knew almost all of them. We sat in front of her, my elder brother in front of me, waiting. And she spoke softly, without overthinking her words, but slow enough for us to understand that they had been carefully chosen. What she said that night has stayed with me for over twenty years, and I have had no peace. I have had to write it down, at last, to try and get it out of me, because if it does not leave me now, I doubt it ever will.

“I grew up with my mother and my grandmother, Edith. And we lived in a little house. On the Prarie, in Massachusetts. Once, my mother asked me to peel the potatoes for dinner, I refused. So my Grandmother called me over to her, made me sit on her lap, and just like you I was, looking up at her like I knew she was gonna tell me something big. She just said to me, ‘Bring me them potatoes.’ So I did. And she said, ‘Bring me that knife.’ So I did. And she started peeling ‘em. But just when I was turning back to my little bit of fun, she grabs me by the arm and pulls me real close to her crinkly old face and she spits shes so mad when she says, ‘Child you ain’t got no idea what you should be doing to help your mother.’ I was pretty sure she was gonna leave it there, but then she pressed the knife in my hand. ‘That knife has got a history that its about time you knew about.’ I wanted to say, ‘This knife?’ but I kept my lips stuck one on