Buechner is imagining a conversation with his dead Grandmother Naya.
Naya is knitting a sock and has her knitting face on-her eyebrows slightly raised, her lips pressed tight.
"You've already set sail," I say. "What can you tell me about it?"
She glances at me over the top of her spectacles and lets her needles come to rest.
"My poor, ignorant boy", she...