poem

 Dead GrandmaThe other day I had this gnawing urge to talk to my dead grandma —the one I called “Grandma” when speaking to her and “Grandma Parks” when I was talking to someone else about her. Not my Grandma Izzy, who’s also dead, the one I really liked. My dad’s mom, I’m talking about. I won ' t go so far as to say that I disliked her. She was fine. I mean she was ok. Always there at the holidays. Made a mean lemon pie. Taught us all how to play Skip-Bo. She was just boring as a conversationalist. Droning on and on about her colored pencil pictures. And always with the same boring stories. I reminded her of her dad, the neighborhood doctor (who wasn ’t actually a doctor) who walked around with a black bag full of carnival salves and ipecacs and assorted camphors, I guess as a side hustle, when he was in his twenties. He was small like you, too, she always reminded me. Thanks grandma. Yeah I’m short. Thank you for noticing. I guess he was a real piece of work, her dad.  Left old Grandma with her aunt and uncle.  And then sent for her a few years later once he ’d remarried and had half a dozen more kids. You could tell she loved the shit out of him. That she forgave him his abandonment the minute she saw him again. Then that damn story about the ants. Just a directionless, pointless story about this one time she and I were sprawled on her lawn looking a t the grass. I was like 4 or something. A bunch of little black ants, as they will, were...
Source: Buckeye Surgeon - Category: Surgery Authors: Source Type: blogs