Coverage of me and other train wrecks: my mama, subway nut jobs, sex and the environment.

10.09.2006

Oils


There were holes where her sense used to be so, swiss-cheesed, she’d get lost on the sidewalks of Miami. Grandma had a habit of walking out of the house alone.

One winter, the dark brown door to the street was open wide so the house filled with flies. She was my responsibility. I ran outside and saw her wobbling slowly down the sidewalk. Foot in front of foot as fast as I could I ran, my chest pressed against my shirt and the chill burned my lungs. I panted, “come back, Grandma Elena,” and reached her and held her arm till she winced and the wrinkles in her face shook—“go back. You can’t be out here, go back.” I was supposed to keep Elena indoors but I wasn’t supposed to be this far from the house either. Back I ran, looking back often.

Mama knocked on every door for blocks and blocks around until she found her. A local had taken her in.

The dry winter went on into March, when the first showers began and the heat made even the cockroaches sweaty. I found them in her secret spot under her bed and took them to the living room to paint.

The box was thick cardboard kept together with hinges and a latch. Several small tubes fit neatly inside plus one large titanium white. There were also bottles of yellowish liquids, home-rolled cotton swabs and fine brushes—mama’s tools for coloring black and white photographs from her brother’s portrait studio. She said never to use them, but I wanted to color: blue red yellow mixed turned brown. Belly down on the floor, I painted on typing paper making sure the television set’s volume knob was high enough to cover my sneaky sounds. Then a siren unwound. An engine hummed. Red and blue lights spun through the windows.

Mama yelled all words and shot from room to room. She opened the front door, two men came in and carried Grandma Elena out, crossing right in front of me and out the door. Their ambulance went away. Dad was at work. The door stayed open. Insects came inside. And I waited letting mosquitoes drain my calves.

God came to take Grandma is what mama later said. Never play with paints.

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