I came down with a mad case of writers block, but I’m back to talk about it and share an exercise and a new piece with you.
If you’re more of a reader, the piece is below–but I forgot to wear pants, so you’re really missing out if you skip my awkward ranting.
He was just a boy when he found his father’s body floating in the river. And I know he waited until the morning to tell you but Mrs. McComas, giving your husband one last night under the West Virginia stars was the nicest thing your son ever did for anybody. And I know you loved him, but Mrs. McComas: you weren’t there. You weren’t there to see him shred the last few years of shit I could call my childhood. To see him make my Mom in to a Monster. She hung over the arm of the sofa, in just a pair of lace panties. I walked in just in time to hear her say: “Go kill my mom.” like she was coaxing my brother–he was six!–in to eating his vegetables. Like she didn’t just tell her son to go kill his grandma. I sent her to sleep, but her room was mostly just beer cans. My grandpa died in there. Before the beer cans. I never got to say “good bye”, but I stopped feeling bad the day he sang me You Are My Sunshine one last time with a bright living ro and a coffee cup. My grandma’s last words were: “You’re a big girl now.” She wanted me to take care of myself, but I was thirteen! I couldn’t. And I was there, but Mrs. McComas, I heard my mom hung over the arm of the sofa after her brother stopped paying for power, for water. Subsisted on my grandma’s leftover prescriptions. I don’t know where she went after that, but Mrs. McComas. I’m sure everyone thinks she killed her mom. Then someone bought that house. And then your son died like his father and I’m sorry, but Mrs. McComas, that was the last night thing your son ever did for anybody. And then that someone who bought my grandmother’s house accidentally burnt it down. And a new one sits on top of it. And it’s like nothing ever happened there. And nothing ever happened there, did it, Mrs. McComas?
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