by Jean Berrett
“Tuberculosis is back,” the headline says, and so I remember Aunt Grace whose husband died quite young of it back in the early 1930’s. Grace, who was named so because she was born on Christmas Eve. Grace, whose hair was always white. Even as a child, I remembered it so. Grace, who except for her ready and riotous laugh, I never, ever knew. Grace who now in her eighties, cries for my dying grandmother, herself still alive at 94, somehow still beautiful. And all of the puzzles of my childhood lie on the soil and grow like ragged, matted grass around that old, old house I had visited so often where all of them once lived. Their brother, Uncle Forest, tall and laughing and slapping his thigh, and then re-lighting his cigar. His brother, Uncle Marion, so different, small and quiet and humorless, whispering to me off to the side those stories of the Klan. My childish earth, first lights and darks, is grass still growing ragged around that old, old house where all of them had grown mature and ended their mysterious childhoods.
5 comments:
Love this line... "And all of the puzzles of my childhood lie on the soil and grow like ragged, matted grass around that old, old house I had visited so often..."
Lovely imagery. The emotion of it creeps up on you. Really nice work.
And this line moves so well:Their brother, Uncle Forest, tall and laughing and slapping his thigh, and then re-lighting his cigar.
Mysterious, ragged edged piece. Sparks many more stories in my imagination.
This one makes me happy and sad at the same time and I can't really put into words why. Very well told.
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