My grandmother
always has a decanter of gin
hidden—maybe stashed in
the study, tucked behind
a row of books.
A store stockpiled
somewhere and a habit of sneaking
away from the family
to top off her tumbler,
as though we don’t
notice how it
remains full—small miracle—despite
her sipping and slurring.
After we all turn in,
she stays up late
into the night,
cleaning the kitchen, washing dishes,
flinging pots, creating
a strange cacophony
that echoes through
the house. She’s a
virtuoso of clatter and clank,
a one-woman free jazz
group—jangle bang improv,
crashing reverb.
In the living
room, in the dark, my father and I
would listen and laugh at
the percussion of slammed
cabinets, rhythm
punctuated
by her hacking cough—legacy of
a lifetime spent smoking
Parliaments, that tortured
inhale rattle
like a switch brush
swept across a snare. As far back as
my father could recall,
he’d fallen asleep to
strains of discord.
The night after
he takes his own life—silences the
dissonance with a roar
of gunshot—I drink rot
gut gin with my
grandmother on
the rocks. December chill creeps in through
the kitchen window. Wrapped
in a blanket, knees curled
tight to my chest,
I still shiver,
but she leans into the open air,
stripped down to white cotton
bra and underpants. Gold
bracelets, a slew
of stacked rings, and
a burning cigarette adorn her.
She’s a vision standing
there, holding herself up—
some strange angel
of regret. Her
bare belly—distended from liver
damage, undiagnosed
cirrhosis—balances
on spindle legs.
Her feet, deep blue
with bad circulation. Her hair like
a dandelion gone
to seed. Her eyes red and
wet, the way they
get when the wind
won’t stop blowing. And the kitchen is
quiet for once—no more
dishes to scour, nothing
to put away.