Gamma
 
She loved to play games. We used to sit on her living room floor. Her back against the couch, wearing one of her many terry cloth rompers with her bra straps sticking out. My Gamma always felt hot. If she wasn't dressed half naked at home, she was running her hands through her dyed blond hair and exclaiming "bloody hell" as drops of sweat glistened on her neck. The most amusing was when she would shove her hands under her ample bosom with a groan of discontent and I just knew "bloody hell" was streaming through her mind like lava. My Gamma. She always made me laugh. Her uncensored disgust with life's irritations, whether it be Pat Sayjack to the wrong kind of toilet paper was a novelty to me and greatly amusing. Her annoyances never bothered me because I knew I was never the source. In my Gamma's eyes, I was magic. Lovely and beautiful in every way. I was her darling and she called me this often in her transatlantic English. Her voice always lilted with song in these moments as if she stepped out of a 1940s movies and should be draped over a piano in a satin dress. And now. she's gone.