Speaking of funny — when I walked into room 102 of the Good Night, Sleep Tight and said, “Granny, I have brought you two bologna sandwiches!” Granny did not say anything at all.

I expected her to curse the very existence of bologna. Or to tell me that she was not hungry.

But Granny said nothing.

“Granny?” I said.

I went over to the bed. I pulled back the covers.

Granny was not there!

I have never been so surprised in my life.

“Granny?” I said in a very loud voice.

I looked in the bathroom. I looked under the bed.

And then I ran out of room 102 and looked for the car.

And guess what? It was gone!

I went back into the room and saw that Granny’s plaid suitcase was not on her luggage rack. I felt dizzy. The whole room was spinning. I couldn’t breathe.

Where would Granny go without me? I was the reason for her existence. She had told me so many times. She said that what kept her alive was looking out for me and teaching me to make the most of my gifts.

I bent over and put my hands on my knees. I took deep breaths. I looked around the spinning room.

And that is when I saw it.

An envelope.

With my name on it.

Inside the envelope, there were several folded-up pieces of paper.

I unfolded them very, very slowly.

Dear Louisiana.

Those were the words written at the top of the first page.

It was a letter.

Granny had written me a letter.

She had never before written me a letter.

And why in the world would she write me a letter? From the very first minute of my life that I could recall, Granny was with me and I was with her.

Why would you write someone a letter when you were always and forever by their side?

You wouldn’t.

Unless, of course, you intended not to be by their side anymore.

I opened the palm-tree curtains and sat down on the bed and stared out the window. I heard a rustling. Was it wings? Was Clarence the crow somewhere nearby? Had he come to save me?

And then, my goodness, I realized that the rustling was the letter. My hand was trembling, and the pages of the letter were brushing up against each other.

It was at this point that I understood that a tragedy was in the process of occurring.

The sky outside the window of the Good Night, Sleep Tight was blue-black, and the curtains had palm trees instead of peaches, and Granny was gone, and I could feel the world whizzing past me.

I once had a teacher named Mrs. McGregor who said that the world was turning very slowly on its axis.

“It is moving infinitesimally,” said Mrs. McGregor.

Infinitesimally.

She said the word very slowly. She stretched it out — i n-f i n-i t-e s s s-i-m a l l y — so that you could hear the infinite in the word when she said it.

Mrs. McGregor always had dried spit in the corner of her mouth, but she was a very patient woman and she was a truthful person. I liked Mrs. McGregor. I could not imagine her telling a lie.

But here is the thing: It did not feel to me like the earth was moving infinitesimally. It felt like it was hurtling and jerking its way through a lonely darkness.

To my way of thinking, you never knew when the earth was going to lurch and go somewhere entirely unexpected. There was nothing infinitesimal about it.

I guess that is what the curse of sundering will do to you if it has been placed upon your head — it will change how the earth itself moves.

Oh, Raymie and Beverly.

Oh, Archie and Buddy.

Oh, Granny.

I looked down at the letter in my trembling hands.

I started to read.