The last thing my grandmother taught me was how to peel an orange

Dear Delyara, My grandmother is ninety-four and dying. She has barely spoken this week. Today, I sat beside her eating an orange, and she opened her eyes long enough to watch me struggle with the peel. Even now, she looked annoyed. She lifted one finger and made a small circular motion. I understood immediately. When I was a child, she taught me to cut the skin in one spiral so the peel came away whole. I had forgotten. I tried again. The strip broke halfway. She shook her head. I laughed, and somehow she smiled. We tried with another orange. This time, I made the spiral almost complete. She whispered, “Better.” That may be the final word I ever hear from her. Better. Not I love you. Not goodbye. A review of my orange peeling. It is perfect. My grandmother taught through correction her entire life: too much salt, wrong knife, hold the baby’s head, fold towels properly. Tonight, the orange peel is drying on my kitchen counter in one long crooked spiral. If she dies before morning, the final lesson she gave me will be something my hands may remember after her voice is gone.