Soda trickles between table leaves
and spills on orange linoleum squares, expanding into a pool of brown. Gram grabs her mopine, and still it comes. The Coca-Cola has breached the rim of the jelly glass on the table. The kitchen cataclysm stuns you if you are only five or seven. “Stop,” we say but still our grandpa pours. “Stop!” we shout but he will not, our Pop. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” but it is pointless now. Bott’l nearly drained, the mess is made. “Ha! You didn’t say 'when.' Ha!” he says. Poppy grins. Dad scowls. Gram mops. We howl. There’s none left to drink but no one cares. Clock hands turn in just one direction. “You didn’t say when!” he tells Heather. Pop grins. Dad scowls. Gram mops. Heather howls. There’s none left to drink but no one cares. Clock hands turn in just one direction. “You didn’t say 'when!'” he tells Joey. Pop grins. Dad scowls. Gram mops. Joey howls. There’s none left to drink but no one cares. Clock hands turn in just one direction. The house on Davis Street is empty now. No Coke in the fridge, no spills on the floor. Pop isn’t here and neither is Gram. I know that’s not right. He can’t be gone. He’d never leave before we said when.
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Tracie MaurielloConverting caffeine into sentences since 1994. Archives
November 2019
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