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None
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After she died, my grandfather took this and every photo of her and put them in a drawer, and my mother and I moved back to the farm.
He didn’t talk to me much. He didn’t talk at all, really, except to say, “Pass the ham,” or “Stop fussing, Delores,” when my mother tried to cut his meat or set out his pills. I chewed my own dinner and watched them negotiate these new boundaries.
Sometimes I walked behind him as he plowed, kicking the dirt with my sneakers. Sometimes he would say to me, “Good thing you’re here, son. Now you can learn how to be a man.” I was seven and had never realized that being a man was something that required study. Continue reading The 2011 Imaginary Family Project – Week 29