David Davis
Mom got up early to get C ready. After she left, C circled, trying to pick a fight with me. I sat at the kitchen table and waited for her. You can offer me a drink at Starbucks, brother, she would attempt, and I would offer it, and she would get overwhelmed, go to her room and wail, then come back and try again. Still, she has done very little screaming this visit. No door-slamming, no name-calling. Mom and I have remained calm, though I got short with C in the car this morning when she, to be contrary, insisted that our grandmother was not a grandmother.
I was driving C to Grammy’s because there was no one else to watch her, and Mom and I had work. I don’t like putting Grammy at risk of COVID, but she insisted, and Mom is exhausted. I’m exhausted, too. On the way there, we saw a truck that said SOCIALISM on the back window. You couldn’t see the part that said SUCKS until the truck was a half-block ahead of us. On Grammy’s street, I waved to two ancient white people before I realized both were wearing bright red MAGA hats.
Grammy was the same but frailer, hair now lapsing white. Your mother is incredible, she said. I tried to be polite; I was not supposed to have seen her again before she dies. C wanted me to leave, kept touching my wrist and looking at the car. Your legs are swollen, she said, shaming me in front of our grandmother, who hates my body. You look wonderful, Grammy said. I forgot that she has cancer again.
In the car, I cried. I think my tears are less salty now, but also more buoyant, rising up from my skin like the kind of nipples that are my favorite.
The ash is on the street, like dust, and in the plants, like big grains of salt. I wanted to call Mom and ask her to tell me I’m not a bad person, but I didn’t. The tears smeared my mineral-based sunblock (chemicals are dangerous). The fire is still going, but the air quality is better today. Grammy does not understand how contagion works and probably never will.
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