Gently she brushes the paint brush on
the blank page on her lap sitting outside on the stoop. Her hands covered in mixed colors
and I beside her amazed at how
good an artist she is. I take out my
notebook scribbling down a belief short summary
of her drawing. Looks like a picture of a man and when Betty sees my bewildered glance she nudges me. This man right here is your grandfather.
I say,
My grandpa?
She nods giving me information about
my grandpa who I've never met before intrigued I am about his character while she talks more about him, but when I ask her. Where is he?
She says
Died on the battlefield in World War ll.
Oh I utter.
It's okay don't think too much about it.
She continues telling me stories about their younger days until mom comes home tired from
working two jobs now. We go back inside when
it becomes too dark to paint or write so we sat in
the living room doing what we both love
mom standing in the doorway from the kitchen
with tea in her hand
listening to her sister-in-law tells. Before sitting down on the leather pull out chair where father used to always sit,
feeling comfortable she falls asleep, so do I trying to keep my eyes open ultimately losing the
fight in the end.
YOU ARE READING
we all bleed red
Поэзия"I was born on June 22nd, 1947 on the wet warm soil of Anniston, Alabama. Where the climate was equivalent to a steaming pot on a stove." ... "Alabama a South state that was segregated while I was being called a gentleman..." ... "You have to break...
