“What do you mean? Old grandma? She never even comes out of her room. She hardly even exists! What’s there to hide?”
Again, I pace. Damn, that pot really is dirty. What did we make in that? Brains or oatmeal or trench warfare? I pace, I stop, I go, I want to say everything, everything there is to say about love and trinkets and whatever, but my mouth just won’t form the vowel-like-mouth-hole, and I’m just here, here now, in front of my Sylvia with this deaf look like I’m going to cry or just run out of here and jump into a noose, etc. “Grandma is just a little demented, is all.”
“You could tell that from just smelling the space outside her room. It smells like death over and over.”
“Let’s not get vile.” I stop. The pot. If I could just scrub it free of any disease, the disease, the bloo
