Do You Love Me? Hila Blum

The first time I saw my granddaughters, I was standing across the street, didn’t dare go any closer.

The windows in the suburban neighborhoods of Groningen hang large and low—I was embarrassed by how effortlessly I’d got what I’d come for, frightened by how easily they could be gobbled up by my gaze. But I, too, was exposed. The slightest turn of their heads and they would have seen me.

The girls took no interest in the goings on outside. They were entirely absorbed in themselves, in their small concerns. Girls with the kind of light, thin hair that spills between your fingers like flour. They were alone in the living room, too close within my reach. Had I been asked, I would have been at a loss to explain my presence. I left.