Grammy and I sat in her tiny living room one day after a trip to the ‘Wal Marts’ where I had bought her a new dress (lavender with tiny white polka dots) and a new camera and some ‘films’. Grammy loved to take pictures and had photo albums bulging with family faces on Thanksgiving Day, some eyes closed in anticipation of the flash, random combinations of her seven children, nineteen grandchildren and twenty-four great-grandchildren vying for a spot on Aunt Cookie’s couch.
Shards of sunshine cut through the space between the sheer window curtains and landed on two ceramic chickens on the bottom shelf of Grammy’s bookcase. As Grammy flipped through her Bible, dog-eared creases, penciled notes in the margins, rocking chair swishing with the shifting of her weight, I watched as the chickens seemed to absorb the light and reflect it from within.
“Grammy, did you make those black and white chickens?” I asked, lazily pointing in their direction with my chin.
“No honey, Aunt Lu made those for me years ago. I think she took a class.”
“They’re cute,” I said, sliding off the couch and onto the floor to examine them closer. “It says: ‘LW 1961’ on the bottom. These are nearly as old as I am!” Continue reading