Gravity
A turtle on a rock,
I lay bare to the sun,
Brown hair bait for
The morning breeze.
I spent the day flat
On my stomach
Watching the float
Bob in the water,
Sleeping and watching
The sun move across the sky
Looking at me from all angles.
Grandma yelled from the back porch,
A cross between a yodel
And something of her own invention.
I buried my face
In the sweet smell
Of her calico dress.
Her hands tugging at my hair,
Her voice pulling me out
Of the calm I found in the pond.
She peered into the bucket
And let out another holler,
“Come help scale these fish
The boy caught!”
And in only minutes, seconds,
Grandpa emerged from the garage,
Wiping grease and oil on an
Old tee shirt of mine.
He jostled Grandma into the
Kitchen, laughing and then
Tickling me until I ran
To the safety of the bathroom.
I scrubbed the day off my skin,
And Grandma’s voice floated
Through the locked door,
“Better hurry, child. It’s ready.”
She’d made fried fish, hush puppies,
And grits with grease drippings,
All as golden as my shoulders.
We laughed and ate
As though the food were gravity,
Not enough and we’d float away.
Grandpa and Grandma told me
Stories of their childhoods,
Which seemed distant and
So much like my own that I’d soon
Forget the time, the day, the year.
We would lean back, patting our
Too-round stomachs and congratulate
Each other on “one damn fine meal.”
It was the only time I was allowed to swear.
Grandpa would churn ice cream
For dessert. The rock
Salt grinding against the
Wooden barrel fed
What I remember.