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.