I'll Skin'ya Alive
“I don’t remember the precise hour I received the call,” he begins.
“But her voice, her voice I do r’member” he smooth’s his beard
I can tell he is deep in thought
“A smoker’s rasp” he says to himself as he pats his neck for emphasis
“If I catch you smokin’ I’ll skin ya live; ya hear me boy?” He widens his eyes and looks at me threateningly
Then turns back as if to face himself, if it were such a thing- and tells me that I am a good boy
“And I must have lost my grip on the thing,” flexing arthritic fingers spotted with age
“Damn cordless phones” he growls, as though it were profane, and wags his index finger in the air
“Your generation always wantin’ privacy….why when I was yer age we diddn’t even have…”
“I still haven’t found the second battery”
He shakes his head
“I’ll hafta remember to write myself a note about looking under the dishwasher later…”
He hasn’t been able to write in five years; none the less bend down
“Any who,” he goes on
“I did not go to her then; I could not bear the sight of her in his bed…
in his arms”
He spits and mutters bitterly
“Whore of a woman your grandmomma was”
He nods to agree with himself “yes she was”
But I see something…
Else.
Hidden in the depths of the wrinkles in his face
He gets up slowly then I can almost hear the creek of his bones
“No…no….I don’t need yer help, I been walkin’ fer 78 years just fine…”
He’s 94
I watch him make his way to his room
“Hey grandpa?” I call out
He pauses and turns to look at me
“Who’d grandmomma leave you for?”
I’m given a look to make me regret voicing the question
He turns his body forward once more but he is too slow
I watch as his face seems to collapse in on itself;
he answers with one word
“God”
And hobbles down the hallway
“But her voice, her voice I do r’member” he smooth’s his beard
I can tell he is deep in thought
“A smoker’s rasp” he says to himself as he pats his neck for emphasis
“If I catch you smokin’ I’ll skin ya live; ya hear me boy?” He widens his eyes and looks at me threateningly
Then turns back as if to face himself, if it were such a thing- and tells me that I am a good boy
“And I must have lost my grip on the thing,” flexing arthritic fingers spotted with age
“Damn cordless phones” he growls, as though it were profane, and wags his index finger in the air
“Your generation always wantin’ privacy….why when I was yer age we diddn’t even have…”
“I still haven’t found the second battery”
He shakes his head
“I’ll hafta remember to write myself a note about looking under the dishwasher later…”
He hasn’t been able to write in five years; none the less bend down
“Any who,” he goes on
“I did not go to her then; I could not bear the sight of her in his bed…
in his arms”
He spits and mutters bitterly
“Whore of a woman your grandmomma was”
He nods to agree with himself “yes she was”
But I see something…
Else.
Hidden in the depths of the wrinkles in his face
He gets up slowly then I can almost hear the creek of his bones
“No…no….I don’t need yer help, I been walkin’ fer 78 years just fine…”
He’s 94
I watch him make his way to his room
“Hey grandpa?” I call out
He pauses and turns to look at me
“Who’d grandmomma leave you for?”
I’m given a look to make me regret voicing the question
He turns his body forward once more but he is too slow
I watch as his face seems to collapse in on itself;
he answers with one word
“God”
And hobbles down the hallway