I was miserable and extremely tired of menopause. “Crap, now I have to pee,” I muttered. As I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, I shuddered; the cold seeping through the century-old windows in my husband’s and my farmhouse was brutal. Being only just an inch over five feet, my feet didn’t quite reach the floor unless I scooched a bit closer to the edge of our king-size bed. Whoever had decided it was a good idea to make king mattresses this deep had probably been tall and lucky enough to have long legs. As my feet hit the cold floor, I winced.
Stumbling back from my nightly visit to the toilet, I stopped in my tracks. There were two people, two women, standing in our bedroom. Glancing quickly at my husband, Andy, I dared to hope—absurdly, I had to admit—that he was awake. I quickly realized that he would be no help at all, and my eyes darted back to the figures. Heart pounding, I was frozen in place.
Some part of my brain was actually working, though, and I recognized one of the figures: my long-deceased grandmother. Funny the thoughts that raced along the pathways of the brain when it was trying to make sense of an absurd situation. Squinting, I recognized her steel-gray hair, curled with a fresh perm and even shorter than mine. She hadn’t changed a bit. Well, except for the being dead part. My facial muscles contorted into a puzzled frown.
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