Summers of
my childhood
were long,
packed with
flies and the
sticky-shrill
cry of cicadas,
afternoon
to dusk.
My dad would
drop me off
at his mother’s,
my grandma’s,
house where
the floors
never ceased
to be sticky
and the
fan’s loud
whirring
enveloped
conversation
and the drone
from the three
lone channels
on the tv.
My grandma loved
animals and had
hundreds of them,
both caged and
free. I never
questioned this
coveting, never
entertained the idea
that maybe her
“love”
was cruel
or too constricting,
though I know
my dad did.
He was from
a line of
people as
poisonous
as they
were medicinal,
their bonds
as blurry as
mirage-laden
caliche
roads in those
hot Texas summers.
I remember
how my grandma
made spice cake
one afternoon.
She’d never cooked
much of anything
before - the house
was too small
and hot.
The fan couldn’t
struggle any harder
to combat the heat
from the stove
or the sun.
In the sweltering
kitchen, the spice
cake was delicious.
Now I know the cake
was easy to make.
It comes from a box.
It bakes in
twenty minutes.
But then I felt
like it was a
monumental
achievement.
My grandma did more
than have animals
and a cigarette
and a raspy laugh.
I devoured the piece
of cake.
I’d never had it
anywhere else,
had never heard of it.
I really thought it
was all hers,
as unique as her habit
of sweeping the dirt
in her
grassless backyard.
She liked it
in smooth
brown-gray lines,
cool to the touch.
I haven’t had spice cake
since those summers,
and not for any good
reason. I just
never craved it
or felt curious,
but I remember it.
I also haven’t
eaten a mulberry
or done much
tree climbing
since I grew taller
than my mom
and heard my grandma died
and forgot exactly
how her laugh sounded
but remembered that
I have her eyes.
