7.05.2009 A pew of tall wheat grass ripples to the wind's doing. Crickets and June bugs howl well into the darkness. The place I am now is a memory; no longer am I in the rear seat of my road trippin' girl group's car. I'm in the passenger seat of my grandmother's truck. Reality's afternoon whirls into a warm evening in Idaho a few years prior, and I am comfortable there. The grass whips at itself as we drive by, crackling loudly, becoming buzzing the faster we move. Grandmother's perfume is monstrously sweet and full of alcohol, and when she cries her powdery makeup becomes milky, so I can't watch.
In her dusky living room we perch on pastel furniture and don't dare recline. "He was in a hunting accident." A phantom face from a disturbing ID card slides into my mind's view. She moves toward me but we never touch. She's been comforted many times before but I am an acception.
Coffee in old mugs with goofy sayings, we sit around the kitchen table, every morning. Once, I asked for my own mug full and with surpirse in her pursed lips, she set a cup on my placemat. My grandfather and she watched me watch it, smell it, taste it, retract it. They watched a failed attempt to age.
I follow her out to the patio that on the edge of it's odd shape, is framed by that same tall grass. An old motorcycle sits fading against the shed; I ask her. "From when Grandpa was a policeman." I ask her. "A long time ago, when he was a young handsome man." In the dry heat, I draw close, warmth on my bare feat; I ask her. "He'll call soon, Mijita, have faith."
Soda in plastic cups with ridges and rum, we lay in bed to pray, every night. Once, I asked for my own cup full and with surpirse in her furrowed brow, she jumped to say a furious "no". My grandfather and she listened to me ask for it, beg for it, cry for it, put me to bed because of it.
