Tuesday, June 3, 2014

(This is a rewrite of an exercise I worked on last night as a free write. Maybe it will go somewhere from here. Maybe it won't.)

"I'm going to tell you what my mother told me about forgiveness, Baby. Baby let me tell you." I sat there and listened. Just listened and watched her wrap herself in a soiled apron. I sat at the table ready for words like bombs. Words like ice splashed cross my face early morning. I did not want to hear Grandma's words. I did not want to feel Grandma's icebombs. What did she know about today? About my worries now? It would be sin punishable by brimstone to walk out and leave. You do not walk out on Grandma, whoever you are.

Sweat dripped from her face to the floor. I watched each drop fall. I stared at the white square fan that held up the window. Tried to keep track of the blades as they spun round and round so fast. What? What, Grandma, what? Hurry and get this over, I thought. "Baby, as simple as it sounds, you have to let it go. You have to remember that we all human beings trying to get it right. Don't you know that by now? Don't hold on to poison or it will kill you so painfully slow. Don't you know? Baby don't you know?"

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