March 2021

Here I sit. Old, polished wood underneath a lacy tablecloth. The soft edges brushing my tucked-underneath-the-table elbows. Miraculously, this tablecloth is untouched by generations of chocolate Texas sheet cakes, hot dogs, baloney sandwiches with Miracle Whip, and lemon sweet tea. I believe that women inherit divine powers as they grow into grandmother-hood. Immortality is something that is achieved with great-grandmother-hood. My Great-Grandmother Ruth will always live on in that way—not in the form of pristine tablecloths—but in the form of the women after her. Her siblings are here from Lubbock, Great Uncle Jim is here, and I just wanna listen to his stories about wild bulls and running horses. Now, I wish I would have written it all down. Back then, my little sister wouldn’t even give me a second to listen to him. Hours pass as I sit at the same table. Greatest-Grandma Ruth has looked out her bird window at her bird garden a few times. As everyone finishes the KFC drumstick bucket and honey saturated biscuits, the real conversation starts between Uncle Jim and me. It feels like we’re two farmer’s talkin’ cattle over coffee. The Sun dips into Southwest Colorado mountains. My mother and sister want to leave, I wanna listen so bad. For the first time in my life, I actually wanna listen to somebody. This strong man across from me- hard working hands clasped in front of him on the table. It feels a little odd, being so young and talking to this man as if he were a playmate. Vague moments such as this live in my mind forever, rest easy Uncle Jim.