nana makes chucking noises while she reads over the recipe book. it sounds like she is trying to catch the attention of a horse. no horses here. she fans out her fingers and motions her arms like the conductor of a symphony, like a fairy about to throw a roast in the oven. grandad ambles through the kitchen with a bottle of windex and a cloth rag, shining up the counters. again. she asks him to pull down some glasses from the top shelf because he is a "teeny bit" taller than she; half-deaf, but quick as you please, he replies, "a lot. a lot taller, stevie." an eighteen-year-old's grin passes over his octogenarian's face. she giggles and holds her index finger and thumb and inch and a half apart. "paul." she says. "paul." and holds the pose until he laughs and pulls down the glasses. his fingers are long and thick, thicker maybe, than when he was younger, thick from blood that has slowed there after years of necessity at the mill, at war, out in the shasta range shooting bucks with a bow and arrow. nana arranges the crystal around the table. mother plays solitaire and talks happily about paul. he is unreachable by telephone, somewhere in tanzania, miles from anyone who might speak english. dad and i read on the couch in thick socks. we both have our glasses on. out the kitchen window, the mountains are snow-capped, and if i hadn't been there, i wouldn't believe they were real.