She is still leaning on the backyard bench as usual, as she did every day. She is wearing a knit shirt and a scarf that was neatly attached to her neck. She is not strong enough to withstand the cold air of this season, nor could she withstand the coldness of the world to herself. Page after page of the book she read, my grandma liked those romance fiction stories collected by my brother in his reading room. Reading one by one book on the shelf of my brother's reading room is like her favorite habit since her memory began to be disrupted. Her nearsighted eyes do not let her read for too long, just around 30 minutes to treat longing and making comfort her days. At precisely 5:30 p.m., after her body is scented with the scent of essential oil which she rubbed on her wrists, she would go behind with her book, she almost did it for seventeen months. She doesn't do it alone, Mersey; the golden cat will always stay by her. I know she gives the cat a necklace with the initial M on it, just like my grandfather's name. But, I should not mention his name in front of my grandma. It is like something taboo to talk about people who have died here. Even though we have not been completely sincere, there are still wounds that have not been treated for his leave.
