Pictures of Childhood

Grandma's house. She lets me pick tiny strawberries and blackberries in the garden. The fuzzy runners in my fingers. A small, rickety bridge meandering through the backyard. The woodshed, a little house where I yearn to hide forever, but it's filled with Grandpa's tools. Sharp and dangerous. Mustn't go there. Mustn't.      
     
But I cannot forget.    
     
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In the dining room, high English society. Tea parties, women in white dresses and parasols. I serve sandwich slices on china platters to ghosts. The teacups filled with tepid Sprite. A wineglass holds what I'm sure is a martini, pickle juice secretly pilfered from the fridge. A single olive floating the pale green surface. I thumb through 78 RPMs. Entranced by girls with Clara Bow lips and finger-waves, an old-fashioned sort of sadness. “Are You Lonesome Tonight” scratching and crooning from the Victrola. Fall asleep on the red velvet chaise, my silent ghost gala a success.      
     
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In the guest bedroom. Shelves upon shelves of porcelain dolls. Shoes without bodies. On the small television, adults talk to scared teenagers about sex. Grandma comes in. Her anger confuses me. Turn it off, she seethes. Later, I will play in the other bedroom. I want to make it pretty for her. I tidy, rearrange pillows. Take out the portrait of her mother. The strange sternness of her face. Place it on the dresser. Grandma comes in. Takes the portrait and puts it away. It makes me sad, she says. Takes my hand and leads me quietly out of the room.    
     
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My mother's birthday. I want to give her something special. Grandma has a picture of a little house, a moon on the door. To me, it is beautiful. Let me give this to Mama, I say to her. You can't, she says. It's a picture of an outhouse.      
     
But I don't understand. I won't till many years later.    
     
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By night. M.A.S.H. and The Love Boat. Grandpa shows me how to eat cornbread in milk with a spoon. To crack pecans and throw them in your mouth. I want him to play horsey with me like he does sometimes but his heart is bad. I love my Grandpa so much. And my Grandma.      
     
Even though they never seem to talk to one another.    
     
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Grandma at her vanity. The scent of cigarettes and cold cream. The white, faceless mannequin that holds her wig. She lets me play with the Chinese music box with the red tassel. I'm ensorcelled by the sad notes of “Fascination.” The ballerina's leg broken and missing, it twirls and skips the mirrored surface in fits and starts. Later, I am sandwiched between my grandparents, safe as houses. Grandma's pillow shaped like a horseshoe keeping her curls intact. Grandpa's gentle snoring, his thick, wire-rimmed glasses on the nightstand. The night light casting a soft yellow glow on the portrait of Jesus. I pull the cover up over my head, careful to not let spiders get in my mouth.      
     
In seconds, I sleep.    
     
https://youtu.be/fQknNaxLAaA?si=NegmuZTXUOp7t6XF