After the radiation ruined her lungs, and they’d drained fluid once a month, then every other week, then every day, my grandma said she wanted to go home. The lifelong neighbors and friends came with offerings of casseroles and stories. For weeks nothing happened, though her skin grew sallow, her hair became unruly, and her naps lasted longer. One day she motioned for my sister and me to come closer, away from the relatives and visitors who circled like horseflies. Suppose I don’t die after all, she said. Suppose all these people came to say goodbye and then I don’t. How embarrassing! We assured her no one would care if she lived. As I ate breakfast, she’d stare out the window. She said she could see them playing in the field behind the house. When I looked out: no one. Who? I asked. All the girls, she said. They’re out there playing ball. I’d like to join them. Days later, in bed, sleeping, her breath labored, she no longer responded to the sound of our voices. I stood in the room when her spirit left her body like a sheet being pulled off a bed. I watched it hover briefly before chasing a hawk, right outside the window.