The sun had gone down.
My grandmother stood at the window in the dining room, looking out into the backyard, transfixed by the sight while she giggled. “The President’s plane is about to take off!”
I didn’t have to look outside to know that there was no plane in the backyard. She was seeing the lights in the neighbor’s backyard.
There was no reason to bring up the truth with her, either. It would only anger her.
“Do you need me to fold your laundry?” she asked quickly.
I was puzzled by this, and said nothing for a moment.
“Wasn’t that your laundry, hanging outside?”
I nodded. “It was.”
“Do you need me to fold it.”
“I’d have to unfold it.”
The sarcasm went over her head, and her giggling mood turned angry. “I was trying to be helpful.”
“You were taking your nap when I brought the clothes in. It’s already done.”
“I was not taking a nap!” she insisted. “I don’t take naps!”
I left my immediate thought unvoiced, that she takes naps every day. When she’s not eating muffins, burning toast, or washing dishes she’s already washed, she is taking a nap.
“Okay,” I said. “It just looked to me like you were taking a nap.”
“I was resting my leg. I was looking for something.”
“Doesn’t matter. The clothes are folded, the shirts are hung. Doesn’t matter.”
She turned back to looking out the window into the yard, where the lights signaled that Air Force One was about to take off. But dinner was ready, and she would soon miss the take-off of the plane that existed only in her mind.