Grandma decides to upload herself to a thunderhead before the winter storm. Lightning flickers like knitting needles. Afterward, the clouds hover above the neighborhood, raining pie recipes and unsolicited advice. On sunny days, the sky smells faintly of lavender. Whenever thunder rolls, it sounds suspiciously like her laugh. The family waves umbrellas, saying goodnight upward. Grandkids grow older without losing her voice; they carry umbrellas on clear days, just in case she remembers a secret.
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