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The taste of cold fries and sweet ketchup reminds me fondly of my grandma. A McDonald's stop on the way to her house. A seat at the Little Tike's plastic table. The smell of cigarettes.
Distant conversation hums from my mom to her, and her to my mom. A sweet tune from a carpet cleaning commercial plays on the TV. A fudge ice cream bar is waiting for me in the freezer. The porch swing outside will accompany us as we're completing a midwesten goodbye.
I was fourteen when my grandma passed away. She never knew much about me, and truthfully, neither did I about her. But this feeling- a day at grandma's- lives in solidarity within me. And sometimes when my fries get dipped in ketchup, or when I pass by a lighted cigarette, a hint of warm nostalgia passes me through.
I don't think I need a life that's loud. I often need something quiet, peaceful, and uniquely mine.
I want a life like a southern woman humming on her porch swing. She has watered down iced tea in hand, just admiring the way the wind caresses the trees. Her melody is found about as soon as the tune itself ends. The moment is as fleeting and insignifcant as the fly buzzing past. But it's her home, her yard, her swing, her watered down tea, her melody- and for that fleeting moment, she shared it with all that surrounded her. Hell, the fly buzzing by thought it was quite lovely.
when I have birthed a child,
when I have slaved away
my time and tears,
dimes and fears,
I hope they never say
that my worth is complete.
my life, obsolete.
I swear it, my
time and tears,
dimes and fears
are not an investment put to play.
I may grow stretch marks and pimples,
may sag in places unseen.
but if past a birth, that word is thrown out-
know that my call for your respect
has always been a thing.