Bombs bursting in air — that’s what I see  —  that’s what I  hear— when my mom talks about her parents.  Seven children in ten years is a lot.  It wasn’t their fault.  But, it must have been too much for her.  For them.  Would be for me.

My grandmother looked vacant —  after that.

But — in those pictures — in that box— the one in the back closet — upstairs — she looked happy — once upon a time.  The two of them looked happy —  together — at first.  But, 7 children in 10 years is a whole lot.

And my grandfather was never alone when he drank — every night  —  around the corner.

Of course, she was tired of it — my grandmother.  I’d be tired too.  Might even say something — might even do something— not so nice.  But not in front of the children  —  I’d hope.

That wound  is hard to heal, says my mother.

Leaves a stain.