Geezer

The day I understood why my grandma
had to die was when I heard Mitzi Gaynor
on Public Access say something to the effect of

I was peeling potatoes, not the sexiest of days.
Pajamas with coffee stains dripped down the collar
and grease near the inseams. I flicked the skins
from our toes as they fell to our feet.
You gonna pickle those?
grandma asked thinking they were eggs.
She placed a jar of vinegar on the table
and dropped two peeled ones in.
Oh, never mind,
she said,
I ran into Mary
at Payne’s. Her kids are away at
theater camp but I just can’t
understand why that girl always
smells of smokes and butter.

She threw another potato in the jar
as our porch-cat Maybelle mistook
one of her claws for a potatoes skin.
I got the broom and swept up the mess
and dragged the garbage bag to the door.

I’ll race you,
she said,

but instead of running to the house
after we drop off the garbage by
the curb, we could do grand jetes.

She walked outside and stood barefoot
in the snow until the ice turned pink
from all of her ingrown toenails.
Let’s go inside
I said.
You right. It’s time for my shot
she replied.

She picked up a jar of insulin from
Paw Paw, which she had been
hanging onto for years. She shot
the needle in the top of the jar
and turned it upside down.

I’d known it was her bedtime when
She started to say incomplete, but
grammatically correct sentences.
I could never be a talk show host.
I’m just too delicious,
she said leaving out the part about that
if she was a host she would have to
bring animals on the show and
they might attack her. She sat down in
the rocking chair, rubbing its leather
against the Sunday paper while
slapping the impeding injection sight.
Have I told you, when I was
a kid I won the hog call contest at
the carnival they had at The Square—
Here piggy, piggy
They had me on the radio and everything—
Here piggy, piggy
I was the talk of the town.

She picked up Paw Paw’s old work pale
from when he was working at the sawmill.
There was a great, big bow echo, which
came from the thunder hitting the garage
door and knocking down the boxes of
white wine. She pulled a steak knife out
of the lime-green pale, lime as in the
chemical no the fruit. Tucked in,
up under the teeth of the knife was
still bits of meat, jerked by time.

She’d turned her palms toward god or
whoever. She always said:
I never much cared what was
up there as long as it had sequins.
She put the knife straight down into
her wrist and watched the blood trickle
into the cloth doily armrest cover turn pink
until she couldn’t keep her head up anymore.