Why is it that grandmas always find the ugliest clothes to wear?
On our date I wore a cheesy sweatshirt filled with floral embroidered graphics and kind words like “sweet” and “precious”.
My tank top had gotten soaked after an incident involving the unfortunate timing of my grandma’s backyard sprinkler.
“You know you never actually told me where we’re going.” I told her in the passenger seat of her Volkswagen bug.
She smiles. “A special place.”
“Not bingo night at the rec center. Please no.”
“That’s tomorrow.” She giggles.
We pull up to a brick building downtown that almost looks abandoned if it weren’t for a neon “open” sign beaming from a dark window. I can’t help but feel awkward when I step out of the car. As if someone is watching me, and I forget how I usually walk or what expression my countenance should display.
But the feeling comes to an abrupt end when my grandma holds open the rickety door for me to walk through, and I’m met with the immense beauty of shelves over-stocked with glasses, candles, jewelry, and china. Piles of antiques stacked haphazardly. Chains of pearls and beads draping from the towers like a pirate’s treasure hoard.
The woman behind the counter gasps when she realizes we’ve walked into her antique shop.
“Oh, great heavens!” She presses her hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry. We never have customers at this time of the year.”
“July?” I ask.
She chuckles. “Yes ma’am. Summer is dead for us. No one wants to explore the items of the deceased when county fairs are up and pools are open.”
My grandma leans on the glass counter displaying rings underneath, and engages in a dull conversation about the unpredictable weather. Meanwhile, a shining blue object catches my eye.
What I pick up is a ceramic mug. Poorly glazed with a thick coat of cyan. The mug is chipped and lopsided like it was made by a child. I inspect it. Turning it, caressing it, pinching it, as if it’s dysfunctional form has a message for me and I need to listen to it.
I shut my eyes and feel down to the rough bottom where I feel words carved.
“3/14/1912 From: Eileen To: Papa”
My attention is divided when suddenly my grandma’s hand rests on my shoulder.
“Almost ready to go?”
“Huh? Oh… yeah. No wait, we’ve only been here a couple minutes?”
“I know. I just came to catch up with a friend.” She gestures to the cashier. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Umm, a mug? I like it.”
Her eyebrows knit as she notices its awkward shape. “It’s… very unique.”
“Yeah. Can I get it? It’s only a couple bucks.”
“If it makes you happy.” She shrugs.
I nod fervently.
I keep it in my lap on the long ride home. Admiring it still as if I had just seen it for the first time.
I wonder if it ever held coffee or tea. Or how many times it was shown off to family members. If Eileen ever continued with pottery. If Eileen could still be alive. If she is, does she remember it?
This mug is not meant to sit with the perfect ones in the kitchen cabinet, nor to be used as pen cup on my dusty desk. Upon arriving back home, I promptly made space for it on a shelf by my bed where I kept every other pretty thing.
Even if it wasn’t as special as my silver and my gold, my awards or my baby teeth, it was special to Eileen. It was special to her father.
My heart does thump
my skin does burn
When the shadow of a man stands
his presence adjourned
1 second he’s there
10 minutes he’s not
On the nights that the air
is stagnant and hot
Bending ‘round corners
lurking in hallways
These dreams of mine
They’re just a phase
A hint of a attention
I shouldn’t pay
To the being that haunts me before every day
Humans destroy what they don’t understand Small brains get frustrated so their fear expands
That’s why I feel for spiders and rats Because they wouldn’t be killed if they were nice furry cats
I’m a witch I must be
Because who in their right mind cares for scales and teeth
For creatures beneath for beasts unleashed Or for those with eight feet
If I must be burned because compassion became witchcraft
Then get it out of the way get me out of your path
You smile at the deer eating grass By the underpass
You smile at the dead ones On the highway too
Beauty does not stop at death to you
Hyphea spread, mushrooms fruit, on a body used to life and pursuit.
The earth enriched so tree spouts shoot
Dark and fresh for native roots
Death must come for life anew
P.S. + E.M.
It’s easy to get lost in the underworld Fingers snap then sins unfurl
Screams and giggles from dead little girls Whose mothers and fathers had insults to hurl
Proof that innocence won’t elude evil The worst can happen to the youngest people
Lies, dead ends, paths are whirled It’s easy to get lost in the underworld
