Page 18 of I Can't Even Think Straight

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Granny hollers after me:

“When you find dem,

mek dem wash dem hands,

and bring dem come eat.”

“Yes, Granny,” I reply, already

mounting the stairs.

“And, Malachi,” Granny hollers again.

I pause on the stairs.

“Yes, Granny?” A question this time.

No answer.

“Yes, Granny?” I call my question again.

Still no answer.

I make my way back down the stairs

and round the open kitchen door.

“Yes, Granny?” I say for a third time.

When she smiles, I catch a flash of her gold tooth.

“Welcome back, baby.”

She opens her arms wide to invite me into a hug.

Tuesday: Self-Preservation—Lunch Hall

I tease Matt and poke his bicep:

“Why are your arms so big?

Have you been weight lifting?”

“Yeah, I have,” Matt says coyly,

“and I went to boxing boot camp over summer.

I wanna be able to defend myself,

or defend you if I have to.”

I find this sweet and scary.

I deflect with a joke: “Chekhov’s guns!”

“What’s that mean?”

“Don’t you remember

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