Grandmother Is a House Y’all Tore Down

Photo by Jp Valery on Unsplash

Grandmother buried babies under the mailbox, then planted bluebonnets. Kids liked her because she was big as a house and soft as rot wood on the porch, soft as a bird’s nest, soft as nightsoil. She groaned and snored. She gave me an inheritance, a $2 bill. Asked which quilt do you want, dust-laced from the clothesline. She dried onions on a screen door. She cooked green okra. The bank account wasn’t in her name. She needed permission to buy a new washing machine. I imagine she left this world dreaming about blank checks and fresh sheets to bleed in.

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