I warned you that my grandmother wouldn’t like you and that you wouldn’t like her. The first time she saw me wearing a flannel jacket with my hair chopped off, she said oh boy here we go. That’s who we’re dealing with. The man she’s been seeing—he goes by “Hickory Frank”—is soft in ways she usually doesn’t like. He brings her honey from his bee farm and sings in a barbershop quartet. I never knew my grandfather, but it was his belt that she snapped over my back when I didn’t call her ma’am.
You wanted to meet the person who raised me, but I’ll swear on the book I’ve never met the woman you’re talking to, showing you her collection of lace doilies and telling you how lovely your freckles are. You’re pretending not to notice the mothballs, and I’m leaning on the open window blowing smoke into the sunset. The sunflower field a hundred yards out is in full bloom. My grandmother is telling you a sweet story about my childhood I don’t remember, and as I watch the long regal stalks nod and sway in the breeze, I think that if only one of us can know this woman, Beatrice, I’m happy it’s you.
Sophie Hoss loves the ocean and is in bed by 9 p.m. every night. She has received a Pushcart Prize, and her fiction and poetry can be found in BOMB, The Baffler, Split Lip, Vestal Review, Wigleaf, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Little Divinities, was published with New American Press. Also, she has a small dog named Elmo who likes to wear little sweaters. You can read more of her work at sophiehosswriting.com.
