She’s not out of the woods yet

and there’s no map for this and the compass is spinning and she’s feverish and forgetful and can’t find her way. Reluctant adventurer, my grandmother sets out, empty basket in frail hand, red cardigan tattered and frayed, walking into a fairytale. My grandfather calls sometimes through a rusty tin can phone discarded by kids in capes on the needle-lined forest floor; It’s rare to hear just his voice, alone.