Tag: grandmother

• July 14, 2017

  A Woman in Town Tells Me

  my grandfather was a native; there’s no paperwork to prove it, but old pictures seem to say more than new words. Told me she lived on the same hillside as him when they were young, that once they were working around the same garden— said she never knew he was there, not until she backed…
• March 23, 2015

  Veatrice

  I could drink the thunder in some evenings,  let the roaring of it all put a rumble in my chest— holler out, and be heard. Yet I lack the grace that should be winding through my veins by way of my great-grandmother: a woman who was not once, but twice, slapped down by strikes of…
• December 30, 2014

  Butter Pecan

  For as long as I can remember, the chair across from the television was where I would sink into for safety. She was there, my grandmother, sitting on the couch: half Indian-style, her left foot curled under her right knee and her other leg stretched out, hanging off the edge of the cushions. On commercials,…
• January 31, 2014

  Olene’s Elegy

  Oh January, you cannot bury the beauty of the worth born into your care, more than many years ago. End all you like, but your last day will be celebrated evermore and everafter the end of September attempts to steal your glory. You see, hearts know nothing of calendars or finality. February will follow you…
• January 14, 2014

  Airing

  I can hear the television blaring and I just want silence or chaos or maybe just a cup of coffee; the kind you’d tell me to go make a fresh pot of when I would drop by, without knocking, and without an invitation to sit in that chair, the one with the not-hardly but probably-once-was…