Years later, I still hear the continuoussteel cable, vibrating in the grooveunder Mason Street, Uncle Gary sobbingbecause someone at the Laundromat stolemy diapers, his room pulsingwith nervous music. No one told me he left home until the dayI scuttled from the smackof my mother's slipper,& she dragged me from under his empty bed.I think of Grandma praying faster,me looking under her skirt while she litofferings to our ancestors, her thick legsrough with veins, the beige stockingssagging under the pull of garters.She always loved me best. Uncle Gary had hitchhiked East to study teeth.Sometimes, when no one was home& you could hear the cracklingof mah jong tiles shuffled next door,Grandma, Grandpa, & I watched strippers on TV.I remembered Grandpa saying, Americanwomen will do anything whilethe melon-breasted blondewith a face like Kim Novak, pulleda feather boa back &forth across her bottom. I can remember the night Uncle Gary chokedon a fishbone because he didn't learn to eathis fish heads right, Auntie Joyce pouredvinegar down his throat to make him throw up,& Uncle Lealand hurled his chopsticks,chipping a plate because the baby wouldn't stopwailing. No one told the landladywe had ten people crammed into three roomsor that Great Grandma smoked & sleptin the hall closet. That night, Grandpa,blind & bulging with irritation, flungthe radio into the clanging cold.
© Priscilla Lee. All rights reserved.