And they make that sound—the snap and crackle and the pop—which makes me think of my Nana Rose because she ate cereal every morning and liked a good crunch and sometimes even put potato chips on her sandwiches, which makes me think of sick days out of school at her house, where she would lay me down on a couch covered in tulip stitching and ask me what I wanted to eat, but it always going to be a banana and mayonnaise sandwich, and halfway through the day I’d feel better, but if I acted like I wasn’t sick she’d send me out to find a switch and neither of us wanted that, so it was easiest to lay on the couch and hold my stomach, and sometimes when I wasn’t so sleepy she would set up a little leather card table by the couch and waddle out her typewriter—my gramps didn’t let her work or take writing classes at the community college, so he bought her the typewriter at a yard sale to keep busy during the day—because we both liked how the arms tattooed the page and the ding at the end of the line and how the noise made the house feel fuller, and sometimes she’d bring me chicken noodle soup to help me play sick, and I’d slurp it down while she read a poem, which makes me think of how when she died—it was years after my gramps, the house quiet when she was found—I pulled a shoebox full of poems out from under her bed, which makes me think of how she sat around typing on a bunch of stuff no one ever wanted to read and how they were all about marriage or food or both and how they were only ever about one person and all felt like the same person, and there was one called blueberries in my pocket which makes me think about things I don’t want to think about, but I still sometimes take it out and read it to myself because this house is so quiet now.