There stands my grandmother, a young woman 
with raven hair I have seen in pictures but never 
with my own eyes. She doesn’t recognize me, 
but she is proud of me. I can see it in her eyes, blue 
like I have never seen because she died with brown 

 

irises like mine. She is marrying Bill Murray, who both is 
and is not my grandfather, and we both do and do not repeat 
this ceremony every night. It isn’t every night, except 
for when it is. The crowd is faceless, by which I mean 
I can’t make out who anyone is, except the hamster I forgot 

 

in the drawer of my nightstand for two months, 
which my husband tells me isn’t real, we never 
had a hamster. But still I woke up panicked, and I am relieved 
to see someone has been feeding her because it wasn’t 
me. Bill Murray is proclaimed my grandmother’s 

 

husband, and he both is and is not my grandfather now. 
He eats clementines that he pulls from his pocket, 
already-peeled, but I decline the slice he offers because my 
teeth are too loose in my jaw to chew, and instead I hand him 
a feather. He puts it in his back pocket and does a little 

 

shimmy that makes me and my young grandmother laugh. 
They will be happy together. Their grandchildren will have straight 
teeth. The crow clergy that married them will visit often, 
bringing blue button gifts that look like my grandmother’s 
new eyes, as well as acorns that Grandpa Bill will keep in his 

 

pockets and peel into slices. Bill Murray never raises his 
voice to me, not even once, even though he’s only sometimes 
my grandfather. I remember to feed the hamster.
We all dance with feathers.