And then the monster ate the princess…

Hazel Mary Graham Sjoberg

The lamplight in the living room of the Santa Monica apartment was low. My Grandfather’s memorial proved more a celebration of his life than a mourning of our loss. By now, my Grandmother’s breathing was no longer easy, her eyes were tired, her hands hurting, and she no doubt wished we’d all go away and let her rest.

I sat beside her on the gold-and-velvet monstrosity of a couch and slipped her a…