she took a drag from her cigarette and rubbed her arthritic elbows
knobby and protruding like cypress knees
bruises and dried blood spots speckling her forearms as though splattered and dripped
and dribbled by Pollock
bandaids strewn haphazardly around her forearms
hiding the cat’s misdeeds
(it’s not his fault, I just picked him up too fast)
an hour before, she had finished picking and cleaning rose petals for jelly
an hour before that, she was picking the ripe tomatoes and counting the new buds
(39 so far, but it’s still early June)
this morning’s coffee still in the pot, forgotten
its bitterness strangling the living room air all the way from the kitchen
I ask her what she’s got planned for the weekend, knowing full well that I’m looking at it
(oh, nothing–probably call Frannie and see if she wants to play rummy)
think I’ll drive down to New Orleans, might come back late
ain’t nothing open in this town after midnight ‘cept the hospital and legs
my sweet, churchgoing grandmother opined
warning me of the lack of late-night entertainment
warning me of the doldrum nothingness that killed my grandfather
warning me of the placid meaninglessness that is killing her
warning me of the necessity of leaving
of seeing more
the local newscast interviewed some folks about the Pride parade in Jackson:
“I just don’t see what the HELL they got to be so damn PROUD about”
before I could hide my facial expression
before I even came to terms with my own sexuality
my sweet, churchgoing grandmother replied to the sentiment expressed by the man on
the TV
shaking her head in disappointment and loving-but-stern pity:
well I guess that’s just what happens when you ain’t never been nowhere
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