Three decades ago, my grandmother washed her hands off people. She decided to wage a silent rebellion against the world. She made friends with plants and dogs. Wept over wilted flowers. Every night she’d get high on Xanax and we’d listen to music together. I’d pester her for stories and she’d weave the most beautiful ones: but only if I promised to switch the tape when its side played out. A single thread ran through all her tales: she would take the mundane and make it magical: a broom would turn into a wizard, a book…