The screaming erupted that day
Like pop rocks from my Grandmother's mouth.
My Mother, in the front house, was busy mopping the floor,
And I, had been drifting, like a lazy bee, with nothing to do.
My Grandmother's shrieking came from a place I did not recognize
It was primal,
and it shred away the calm of the day.
My Mother bolted out the back door, and suddenly,
I was alone.
I was too afraid to follow
So I stayed in the house and listened as my Mother's voice rose,
from somewhere deep,
in a throaty, guttural wail.
I heard my Great Grandmother's
weary boned shuffling hastening from around front.
We had been weeding together, but I had long since tired of pill bugs and snails, retreating instead to the cool of the house.
I peered out the back screen door
and watched as she labored
up the stairs to my Grandmother's apartment and disappeared inside.
Soon, she came back down and took me for a walk to the corner store for my favorite candy.
I was four years old the day my Grandfather died.
The day my life shifted
And I was set a little adrift.
I was never allowed up to my Grandmother's apartment that day.
I spent the afternoon making aimless circles on my tricycle under the carport.
When my Uncles and Aunts started arriving no one pinched my cheeks.
Odd behavior for a family who treated their children like treasure.
I was my Grandfather's crown jewel.
He called me Cleopatra, and I held court upon his knee.
I was perfect only in his eyes,
and the day he died is the day I fell back to earth.
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