Nutmeg (bp coyle)

‘Pass down the jar of whole nutmegs,’ Grandma instructs me. She’s a bit on the short side. She grabs it from me with one wrinkled hand. With the other she searches in her numerous pockets until she has retrieved her reading glasses. She spends the next few minutes shaking and scrutinising the jar, moving her glasses to the tip of her nose, back up to the top and finally back into a pocket.

Shopping with Grandma is never a quick experience. I am well used to it though, I take her out every Wednesday to get her supplies for the week.

‘Ten,’ she declares. ‘Ten whole nutmegs. That should do it. I will never need to buy nutmeg again for as long as I live.’

I hate when she talks this way. ‘You’ll still be going strong in twenty years Grandma,’ I assure her.

‘Son,’ she says. She always calls me ‘son’, I am not sure if she remembers my name any more. ‘If I’m still here in ten years, you have my permission to shoot me.’

‘You won’t be saying that in ten years time, trust me.’

She snorts and wanders off to look for her next item.

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