I spy my toes mid-stretch in downward-facing-dog. I stick my tailbone out slightly and give in to a deeper stretch. Usually, at this point, I’d close my eyes and exhale. Though I can’t stop the breath releasing through my lips, my eyes remain open.
I look down at my toes.
They are like my grandmother’s – big and sausage-like, constrained by chalky, calloused skin and bare nails. I remember her beefy feet bare and peaking out from under her curled legs, while she catered to her one addiction in this life – reading biographies of famous people. She used to say that it was better than fiction, what lucky people could have.
But she didn’t always think that. She used to read fiction; mysteries by Agatha Christie were her favorite.
I have a few novels by Christie, a strange, kind of homage to my grandma. My shelf overflows with all kinds of fiction – romance, mystery, horror/thriller, science fiction, short stories, and poetry.
But no biographies…
No, not yet.
We both always loved a good story and a good bullshit artist. I couldn’t tell you why she moved away from the joys of fiction just as I couldn’t tell you why still live in the land of fiction and novels.
I’d like to think that it’s because, even after all this time, I still believe in a little bit of magic.