My grandma was a giant black man. And she was one chill muthafucka. She didn’t get riled about shit.
Whenever we went into town folks always got out of grandmas way. She was still a hulking beast even though her flowered mu-mus gave her an air of sweetness. Some say she used to be violent & mean when she was young. But I can’t picture it. Grandma would tell me stories bout how back in the day people would call her colored and what not, how Rush Limba used say lots of dumb ugly BS and how all the kids used to dress like clowns. I guess it was a diferent time.
By the time I came along the world had changed and there weren’t much anger bout colors and sexes nomore. We was all mixed up anywho. For instance, I ‘weren’t much bigger than rooster’ as Grandma would say, and because of the solar fields I was 78% robotics.
My favorite times was when we’d sit out on the porch in the evenings. Grandma with her steaming medicine sticks, her merry june. She loved to cuss and spit, but what she loved more than anything was singing. She could sing bigger than a whole damn thunderstorm. She’d start in real low and then slowly soar into these high reverberating howls that would rattle the steam plates behind my eyes, causing them to over lubricate.
I’d be sitting on her lap, looking up at her, holding her giant rough hands and she’d be singing. Singing about smokestacked lightening… the purple dog stem oil running all down my face.
This is one of the short stories I’m working on for my lil book that’s coming out this summer. If you want to pre-order a copy and help fund the project along the way… check it out over here. You can even buy the original artwork I’m doing for it.
Thanks for looking - Hookers or Cake
