We held the wedding at a nursing home so my grandmother could see me get married. My mother grimaced: “How depressing… don’t even mention it.” My sister laughed: “Post it and they’ll call it a ‘wedding of poverty’.”
We didn’t choose the nursing home because it was trendy or symbolic. We chose it because it was the only place my grandmother could be. Her name was Moira Keller. She was eighty-nine, her hands curled by severe arthritis, her heart fragile after years of quiet endurance. For months she had repeated the same sentence…
