my father discloses small pieces of information about his mother's suicide and I hang on every word. alice walker says we are our grandmothers and I feel a very close connection to mine even though Ive never met her. I think I am supposed to take care of her unfinished business, fight the fight for her because she wasnt strong enough to do it herself. I have her blood in my veins and when I look my my father I see her face in his. I see his little boy feet on the linoleum at the kitchen counter watching her mix the cream of mushroom soup into the yellow bowl that we still have to this day but we never use it.

its like when pastor wayne delivered the eulogy and told everyone how my mom died. I was glad he did it. no one wanted to talk about it. we were all skirting around the issue, walking on egg shells, pins and needles, whatever. people are so afraid to talk about what really happens.

I felt my throat get tight because he never talks about IT and when he does I dont want to miss a word, a quiver in his voice, a nervous twitch in the muscles of his face. I want to know about it all.