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Writer's pictureEvan Williams

Grandma Scott's House

Updated: Nov 27



There is a dream I have on repeat: Grandma’s house,

the one where she raised three daughters, three sons, ten grandchildren,

and countless flea-infested cats, all buried in the backyard (the cats, that is).

In this dream, I sit alone at our larger-than-life dining table.

I get up and walk to the sliding glass door to the backyard.

But instead of it opening to the burial ground for pets, I walk into the walls.

The walls have secret tunnels, walkways, ladders, peepholes, slat boards, and darkness.

My guide in the deep abyss is a roll of toilet paper.

I unravel its pillowy quilted squares, and its angel-white softness

is the light I follow down into the unknown.

Two turns left, a right, a climb up, and a slide down;

I crawl out of a refrigerator that sits askew

in the trash heap of old appliances behind the garage.

I tiptoe over the bones of felines six feet under

and try again.

 

There is a dream I have on repeat: Grandma’s house,

the one where she raised an army of crippled siblings

whose genetic diseases brought them bouts of manic laughter

as they tripped over their club feet, rickety joints,

and the scattered memories piled about,

those squeezed out of their dissipating grey matter.

I sit alone at the table for too many as my aunt falls headfirst into the closet,

the fur coats wiping away her tears of laughter as she cackles at her MS.

I walk to the cupboards where I find another hidden walkway

instead of canned tuna, Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, forgotten cat nip, and tomato juice.

No brawny man to guide my way, just a bounty of paper towels

that unravel to absorb my fears of the indefinite darkness.

It leads me down a spiral of funhouse mirrors,

my reflection distorted like the gnarled fingers and knobby knees of my ancestors, and

out I pop from a stack of tires that leans against the tool shed in the backyard.

I mind the minefields of dry, dusty dog shit left behind by Alex,

the family pet who bit the neighbor in his senile confusion

and prompted the reign of feline furries.

And so I try again.

  

There is a dream I have on repeat: Grandma’s house,

the one where she raised a generation of grandchild degenerates.

Those lost to alcohol and drugs—disease and laughter—

as they watched their aunt fall into closets.

I sit alone at a table with chairs that go on for eternity.

I walk to the bathroom and find myself in the walls.

Another roll of toilet paper with my family name,

Scott;

The only thing to guide me.

A long line of connecting squares;

The only thing I can follow.

Step after step, I walk the line,

falling, laughing—laughing, falling.

I ascend a rope of heritage,

the thin supple fabric of lineage soaked in tears,

still strong enough to bear my weight.

Out from a hole in the backyard, I climb.

There sits my grandmother with a shovel

and the heavy questioning face of dementia,

“Have you seen the cat?”

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