"My white picket fence is painted red," my grandfather reads
from the yellow paper in his hands and
seeks the ashtray with
his trembling fingers.
"What does that mean?" I say but he
reaches the cigarettes before me and
for a moment all my eyes can see
is his the feeble flash
of his lighter.
" The hell if I know," he says and
disappears behind the smoke, "that's
the kind of nonsense she wrote but I
forgot it was nonsense because of the way
she said it."
My grandfather sits in a brown
rocking chair on the porch of his
square brick house that's the same
as the other square brick houses except
for the rusty numbers hammered onto his
mailbox that is the color of bones.
"She was an artist so she liked to
take pictures of billboards with
'Jesus' written on them and put
them into collages and she did
that until 'Jesus' was painted over
with the war effort."
The first car in twenty minutes passes by
and my grandfather's eyes follow it. " I bought
her a washing machine but she didn't want