My grandmother was a minuscule old woman, forever covering her hair with a white head-scarf, the tips of which she always tucked in her grey apron over her black, long dress. She was shrinking. Or we were growing fast. Her somewhat round face was like dough-bread, full of oval lines that gave the impression she was constantly smiling. She smelled like bread too. She had a slow way of walking, almost duck-like, keeping her head straight up, her eyes always exploring the ground she was walking on. But usually, she would sit on the divan outside of the house when the weather was warm and watch us kids play in the front yard. She would cross her legs in a yoga-like position with an amazing ease, and rosary in her hands, would start talking to herself or to the many people that were dead by now, including her husband. Only when the game we were playing would call her attention, she would yell out our names for us to stop it. That is if she remembered our names. She’d start yelling the name of her husband, my grandfather, then the names of all her sons, starting from the oldest, then if she got lucky she’d get our names right. We knew this. We’d keep playing our game, which consisted mainly in who could hang longer from the highest persimmon tree branch, our amusement doubled by this sudden entertainment. Beqirooooooo! Ganiooooo! Meroooooo! Feridoooooo! Pllumoooo! Pause… Saimiroooo! Blerimooooo! Finally…! Her voice would be weak with exhaustion by the time she got us to stop, and we would run up to her and cover her with kisses in her dough cheeks. She’d smile for real then and would put her dry, bony hands on top of our sweaty heads, caressing the unruly hair with great patience.