We've never been to this park before. I've never heard of it before. We sit in an isolated, slightly shady cement area with tables. Behind us is a dark wood fence, with ivy crawling up its boards and pine needles drowning in its depths. Tall pine trees line the perimeter of the park, from where we are to the edge of the large field that seems to go on forever. There's a play-set, swing-set, and sand box a bit further past us. 
  The sky's clear. There are no clouds, just endless blue. 
  It's a bit chilly, with a light breeze blowing through the park. My sisters, parents, and I are sitting at one of the tables, while my grandpa is sitting at the other. My grandmother, in her wheelchair, is at the edge of his table. 
  She's bundled up in a heap of blankets, with gloves and a scarf and wool socks and a hat. My grandpa hands her his phone, from which German music is playing. As her eyes travel across the playground, I wonder what she's thinking about. Is she even thinking about anything? 
  Of course she is. The human mind shouldn't be empty. It shouldn't be missing important links. It shouldn't let you not be able to talk in the language your family understands. It shouldn't be able to not connect the faces of people you love to your recognition of them. I'm her sister's daughter one day, her neighbor another. 
  I wonder if she's thinking about Germany, about when she was a little girl growing up during World War II. I wonder if she's thinking about the time her brother's eye got blown out by a grenade. I wonder if she's thinking about when she heard her older brother was killed. I wonder if she's thinking about how much she hated that goat that seemed to chase her to the barn that one day. I wonder if she's thinking about the dancing club where she met my grandpa. I wonder if she's thinking about the days my uncle, other uncle, and mom were born. I wonder if she's thinking about the days my sisters and I were born. 
  I miss her voice. 
  I miss her hugs.  
  I miss her stubbornness and grit.
  I miss seeing her cook in the kitchen with my mom. 
  I miss her making my mom smile instead of cry. 
  I miss her being able to have a real conversation with me. 
  I miss her mac and cheese.
  I miss how once she got mad at my little sister for spilling milk at the dinner table. 
  I miss the life that used to flow through her veins and be shown so clearly in her actions. 
  I miss her. 
  "My angels," my grandpa says, gazing at me and my sisters in turn. 
  I look at my grandmother, at her chestnut brown eyes mindfully taking in her surroundings. I feel the quiet air around her, calm and peaceful. I want to believe that she's here with us, but is she really? 
  Even though her hair isn't gold, even though she's not wearing white, even though she doesn't have a halo or wings, she looks like an angel. 
  Yes, I think. Yes, she is an angel.