my mother's mother |
Grammy lived far enough that a visit was a production, Mama packing us into the car with pursed lips and sharp motions. the whir of the car was mimicked inside by Daddy’s soothing voice, and we’d sit for hours, reading or playing, or kicking each other until Mama couldn’t stand it any longer and we sang seven part harmony down country roads. I have a confession: it was mostly my fault. I am the oldest, and trained them to fear me. no music at Grammy’s house. just things to look at but not touch, with Styrofoam in every window to keep the curtains from fading to a paler brown. no light touched the corners, kept spotlessly clean, the sheets stiff the beds made as sharp as hotel corners, and in the background, Grammy’s voice, gentle and relentless. with the distance of time and space I recognize in Grammy’s voice the reason Mama tucks her worry away, never letting it hover to stain our air. Grammy fed us well, on molasses cookies and mashed potatoes and grilled cheese made of the kind of bread Mama never bought, but Grammy never ate with us. she played waitress, then retired to her granite table on her little red stool where she could jump up in a moment. at Grammy’s funeral, I thought about her— a difficult life made her a difficult woman, never able to ask for warmth. and I was glad Mama had the strength to break that cycle. as we left her house, Grammy stood on the porch and waved us away, and Mama reminded us to twist around and wave back, but before we could, she turned and shut her door. line count: 54 Prompt for: Jan 7, 2016 ▼ |