the new home of @bookmark_terry
That time my grandmother dragged me through the perfume aisles at Saks, she held me up by my arm, hissing, “Stand up,” through clenched teeth, her eyes bright as a dog’s cornered in the light. She said it over and over, as if she were Jesus, and I were dead. She had been solid as a tree, a fur around her neck, a light-skinned matron…
I always gathered spring greens with Gram down by Mission Creek we would climb those steep banks picking dock dandelion lamb’s quarter sheep sorrel poke weed and nettles using knowledge handed down from mother to daughter from England and Ireland now with Gram dead and a mother who got too sophisticated become uncertain can’t quite remember how many times…