She didn’t know her intimate old never saw fingers twisting to stone. Small impatient tight-strung snapped at us like our terrier pup. Now she, our intimate old queen of fig trees and crochet hooks reminds each of us, grown slightly gray of lapses in our family love. Needles click faster, sharper her tongue playing out a hand she says lacked trumps with an unchanging rule: thicker than water the blood of her kin. Her eyes blur, hearing aid shrills, on weak days she pleads for the Angel to come but life gives her the old anger. She whips up tea cakes for her kin.