Persephone

August 24, That Other Summer I

66 August 24, That Other Summer I was smoothing the white lace gown in my grandmother’s spirea laced house the yellow roses still crowded, diaphragm like a pearl studded clam not quite ready for opening. No, I was that shell, remembering the film in 7th grade of some one swallowing raw clams run backward. I didn’t know how close it was to an omen, my grandmother’s brownies in a blue bowl. Everything waiting to be gulped down, none of the uncles so pale any one who looked would know something dreadful was happening yet. My grandfather 67 15 months from falling upstairs for the last time. The black cat howled on the screened-in porch hemlocks and ferns turned emerald as I curled into myself like dirt in some clam shell as if I expected time to turn what was into a jewel ...