I am back in the arms of Florida and seeing everywhere, for the first time since she’s died, my grandmother’s favorite chain store everywhere. I want to buy a little something, like her: leopard print handbag, leopard print hat. She was a typist, a collector of teapots. For lunch, she always laid out cold cuts and plastic-y cheese. Above the black vinyl couch, framed prints of red-crowned cranes, her bedroom always in some gauze-pink light. I try to list what I know she loved: key lime pie, coconut chocolates, Lifesavers. Whitefish salad. In the last months, on morphine, she recognized me. Her tongue searched for my name then found it, as if having forgotten that oranges existed she’d suddenly tasted one. I miss her more dead than I ever did alive. Is that love?