The Boy Who Could Smell His Own Eyes
by Jake Berendes
grandma had been sitting in the lotus position for twelve
hours now, and we were all starting to get worried."granma, you want
us to make you some soup?"no reply."granma, you want us to get out
the pavarotti tapes?"no response at all."granma, where do you keep
the ritz crackers?""in the cubby near the sink. use a plate."on and
on it went like this. she didn’t eat, she didn’t sleep. she wouldn’t
even watch "baywatch." she wouldn’t have moved at all if it weren’t
for the fact that she couldn’t stand us spilling crumbs on her funiture."i
thought i said to use a plate?" she says getting up, her bones audibly
popping. she is in no apparent pain whatsoever and in fact her grey
hair actually seems fuller as she reaches up to the cabinet and retrieves
one of those old yellow fiestaware plates for us to rest our grilled
cheeses on. "here. what do you say, now?""thanks, granma."and back
she went into her trance state for another 4 hours, in front of the
coffee table with a big pitcher of tea we never saw her drink from.
"granma, can we watch yo mtv raps here?""granma?"stop. |