Within Arm's Reach by Ann Napolitano Page A

to do, and I did it well.
    But the lightness was gone. After the twins I did not lose anyone for decades, not until my parents, and then, later, Patrick. But I found motherhood to be a place where I was constantly poised for disaster, braced for loss. Every flaw and weakness in my children I tried to point out and destroy. I urged them to be strong, and tough, and cautious, and especially to be durable.
    And I suppose that I was successful, as they have all reached adulthood. My grandchildren have reached adulthood, too, and with them I was able to refind my lightness. I have loved my oldest granddaughter purely, with no motive, until now. Now everything has changed. My heart groans when Gracie walks into the kitchen reading a letter.
    “Good morning,” I say.
    I spoke softly, but still Gracie jumps. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and stacks of letters make the pockets of her bathrobe bulge. “Gram, hi. How are you feeling?”
    “I’m fine,” I say. Then I let a cloud of silence sit down around us. I want Gracie to know that what is coming is important. Only when I see fear round the corners of her expression do I continue.
    “Do you remember how your grandfather would talk to you and your cousins about what it means to be Irish?”
    Gracie nods. “Whenever he drank too much.”
    I glance down at my hands in my lap. Beneath the age spots and the blue veins, they are the same hands I raised my children with. They are the same hands I parked on my hips while I told my children which parts of themselves they needed to cultivate so they would be able to survive in a hard world. Now it’s time for me to do that work again.
    “As you know, Gracie, I was never much for that kind of talk. But I think that perhaps since Patrick’s been gone, you and your sister have forgotten what he was trying to teach you. He wanted to educate you children about who you are, even when he told those silly tales. I’ve been thinking about a story my mother used to tell about a neighbor in Ireland who she called an Irish dreamer. And when I say a dreamer, I mean a real dreamer, not a drunk. He would walk out his front door every morning and put his finger up in the air to see which way the wind blew. He would turn his finger in every which direction, eyes squinted, pipe clenched tight between his teeth. When he finally thought he’d figured the wind out, he’d be ready to start off to work. There were a few ways he could get to his job—on the back road, down the main avenue, or cutting through the next yard. He would turn his entire body first in one direction, then another. When he thought he had made his choice, he would raise his right knee and lean forward, but he never quite took a step. He would stand there all day long, the children mocking him, the housewives shaking their heads. Of course, he soon had no job to get to, but each morning he went through the same routine. My mother said he died out there one morning, his knee raised up in the air, hoping to make a decision. I’m sure the last part wasn’t true. That was the kind of ending my mother liked to give stories. No doubt he had a heart attack or died in his sleep, but the point is the same.”
    Gracie has her hands on the pockets of her bathrobe. “Gram, why—?”
    I give a sharp nod, to shush her. “The point, Gracie, is that some of the Irish are like that, locked in indecision, swinging from one possibility to another. And for people like that, sometimes the most dangerous thing is when they accidentally make a big decision. When they do take that step, it’s because someone pushed them, or because they tripped.”
    I see now, from the look on her face, that Gracie is getting it. “You think I’m like that? I’m like the man who can’t get himself to work?”
    “You need to make something of your life before life makes something of you.”
    Gracie just stares at me. When I look back, I realize for the first time that Gracie’s pale blue eyes