grandpa

misty mississippi morning became a foggy alabama afternoon became a drizzly georgia night.

& the air was warm for december and everything smelled like it should, and the waitress at the cracker barrel poured endless refills into my tall plastic cup of sweet tea.

we were like seaweed, remember? i wrapped a tune of you up in old newspaper ads, tied with white kitchen string, to open and burst into song on some faraway day. i hid it inside yr fiddle case as a surprise, in case you ever return.

the cedars by the alabama roadside are squat and dark green, lovely on this dull grey day. they smell like pencils, my grandfather says, you stick yr head in and they smell like pencils. he dislikes the northwest because it's all the same shade of grey-green. i'm too wedged up against that one grey-green city to remember if i agree.

salt, pepper, two kinds of mustard, and a half-empty bottle of tabasco. he picks each up in turn, reads the labels, tells me stories about a hot sauce made on a small island off the coast of louisiana, in the original old factory, by hand, and aged for, like, two years. this island has salt mines, oil, and the hot sauce factory. they're filthy rich. something about the old man, and his will, and beautiful modern houses that were built there. oh, the architecture was marvelous !

he sighs, and pushes his plate across the table so that i can finish off the last few greasy french fries. we stand up slowly and i wipe my fingers on my jeans and he waves good night to the waitress and we walk back out into the wet parking lot and the night.

the cold

The way the night continues despite everything. The way the dawn of another grey winter sky creeps up across yr back while you look down, trying not to step on the cracks in the sidewalk. My cheeks are rough and ready for the sting of the wind but the thin skin on the insides of my wrists reddens and aches where my sleeves ride up to leave it exposed to the cold.

The cat is yelling outside the front door again and some soulful lady is howling on the record player and we're all sitting in our bedrooms mumbling about the cold.