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…
Over and over I call her back to me– her flowered bathrobe with pink trim around the collar glasses a little crooked hair wispy white. Scuffing blue terrycloth slippers she turns toward me, grasping the counter edge for balance, and speaks my name with more love than anyone ever squeezed into one word. Over and over I listen to the sound of my name– the…