We didn’t mean to hurt you, granny… we just wanted to go to the county fair so awful bad. We didn’t know that your rheumatism would start to flair, and your joints would start to snap up. We didn’t understand the, uh, disposition of the elderly. We didn’t know the way an old person’s mind works. We were young and giddy. We enjoyed the discovery of flesh and mind. We didn’t understand the, uh, the honing of flesh and mind. We just weren’t aware of your honing, granny. The truth is, we wouldn’t have prodded and poked you so hard about taking us to the county fair if we had known that your body just plumb couldn’t handle it. We weren’t aware, back then – that is, we just didn’t know – that people’s bodies have limitations… and rules.

I remember we were just putting the sheep on the weighing mechanism, and the county mayor was helping us with his hooves and back fat and so on. The county mayors dressed in wonderful red costumes back then, almost like a ringmaster, but with dignity, and I remember the cloth glistening so nicely as it accidentally came into contact with my flesh. I wish the memory could stop there, granny… I wish the memory could stop with the county mayor and his wonderful clothing. I wish the memory could stop with the sheep’s beady eyes and soft, heaven-made downy-feather wool. I wish a lot of things could have stopped then, granny.

When you started twistin’ and shoutin’ and callin’ for the lord, the kids and I, well, we thought you were having another one of your, uh, mental spells. And, well, me and the kids – we sort of assured the crowd that nothing was going astray, and you did this sort of thing all the time. They were convinced by my words and the ceremony went as planned. Our sheep, well – our sheep won Best in Show! All those nurturing seasons paid off. We treated that little lamb like a nice human baby and we were handsomely rewarded for our, uh, unbridled intensity.

But you didn’t win Best in Show, granny. You changed a little that August day. You went up to see Jesus in his changing room. You morphed into a little heaven elf, ha-ha, you know, one of those little singing choir girls with a halo-hat. Aged but painless. You know the ones, ha-ha! I bet you look mighty cute up there, looking down on us, setting on your setting-chair. I bet you’re doing just plumb fine up there.

But, well, I bet you can imagine, granny, that the kids and I – the kids and I feel awful sorry for ignoring your pleas of pain. It’s true we watched you die, granny… it’s true we watched you die ‘way, 'way out there in the plains by the sheep booth. And for that we feel so sorry, we feel the pain of guilt all the way from our brains to our dicks.

Sometimes, at night, I like to put the kids to bed, and I like to take the horses out to the county fair grounds all by my lonesome, as quiet and empty as the end of a peanut barrel. I like to go out and stand there in the mist and remember just exactly what your expression was the last time me and the kids saw you. I like to imagine your little blue dress, the one you made in middle-age, the one you worked so hard on maintaining right. I like to imagine it so pretty and flawless, surviving perfectly through decade after decade. I think about the day the kids and I dropped that off at the burning center, and watched the garbage men burn it with our days’ supply of old turnip husks and empty canisters of linseed oil.

Me and the kids, granny… we just didn’t understand an old girl’s touch.

5:16 am  •  20 April 2012  •  14 notes