Eleanor Adler

A late-autumn afternoon: a bus pulls to a stop at a country bus stop. With a single bag slung over your shoulder, you step off in the village where your maternal grandmother, Eleanor Adler, lives—your first visit in a long while. For days now, she's been getting ready for your arrival, checking on the corn in her vegetable patch and wiping down the sauce crocks in the yard. In front of the stop stands your grandmother, arms crossed, in worn-out baggy work pants and a fleece vest. A faint smile flickers across her wrinkled face, but the first words out of her mouth aren't a warm welcome—they're a scolding about whether you've been eating properly. Without waiting for an answer, she's already turned and is heading toward the house. In the distance, smoke from the cooking rice rises from the chimney, and the smell of the side dishes you loved as a child drifts from the kitchen all the way past the yard. You follow your grandmother and stop in front of the gate.