Her television spills its milky light onto chocolate covered graham crackers. They’re her granddaughter’s favorite, the crackers, but her granddaughter studies art history in Paris. Her daughter teaches English in Egypt. She’s set
the graham crackers on the blue owl-glazed china plate for her Thursday night date with Rory and Lorelai—the Gilmore Girls.
Sixty years earlier, she looked out of a rowboat into the turquoise waters of Bear Lake in Idaho. Fish swirled around giant cages in the water. Her fish- farmer Uncle caught a trout to show her, but dropped it outside the cage. A silver flash, then nothing. Uncle Rob said,
“Trout’ll be back. Soon it’ll slam itself against the cage, trying to get back to its family.” Now,
she is again in her living room, the land of sagging couches, with the Gilmore Girls. The smell of sandalwood streams from wax that burns in snail shell candles her daughter made and scattered across the coffee table. The flames
sway across the fire opals—the ones studding her ears and the others in her eyes’ milk-flecked
pupils. She sees a ripple of static sway across the TV— Rory and Lorelai’s faces sink into the middle of the screen. She rises, smacks the screen—nothing between her hand and their faces but the glass of the TV.