My Grandmother and a Bottle of Chardonnay

One glass.

She asked me how I expect school to go.

Two glasses.

She held my hand and told me she gets a feeling about me,

“A feeling that says you’re going to do great things,” she hummed.

Three glasses.

She pulled ivory statuettes off the shelf and tried giving them to me.

I declined.

She placed them in my hands anyways.

Four glasses.

She begged me to pick something from her shelves.

“I’m downsizing,” she said,

but I thought she was embracing

her death too soon.

Five glasses.

Her hands shook as she removed a

gravy boat from the shelf.

“Your mother and I used to be friends, once,” she said.

“So were we,” I answered.

The chandelier buzzed over our heads.

Six glasses.

She placed her chin in her palm,

her blue eyes staring into mine,

and said, “You were made to be loved.

Women were made to be loved.

You’re going to spend your entire life wanting to be loved.

I hope you’ll be loved by the right person.”

Seven glasses.

We started cooking dinner,

laughter bouncing off the ceiling

and reverberating in our ears.

Lemon juice splashed onto the counter

and tomato sauce stained the yellowed linoleum.

The bottle of Chardonnay tipped over,

pooling around the ivory statuettes.

Hello Again

Sorry for not publishing any work on here lately. My pathetic excuses are that over the summer I was out of the country and senior year has been whipping my ass. There will soon be some work published on here, as it is a new year and I have vowed to publish my work more often as a resolution. I’m also in a new class of writers, and I’m excited to share their work with you.

Thanks,
Hannah