My grandmother, a Marilyn Monroe blonde, lay
in bed for years and years before her death. She drank
gin mostly, though she was not above the bottles
of vodka she kept between her bed and night
table. She wore an apron as if she planned
to get up and work the way she had for so many
years. When my father was a child, I am certain
she hurt him. At the very least she neglected
him, chose the bottle over him when he needed
her the most. His anger over the love denied
him was visited on my sister and me. At his command
we lay across his bed and took the paddling like big
girls, my sister refusing to cry, me wailing at every
blow—one, two, three, and beyond. I loved him.

One thought on “My Grandmother
  1. A perfect mini portrait of your grandmother. This is not easy to achieve in paint and I imagine not easy in words either.

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