laughs like pebbles
by Nigel Grenier
Grenier, 2013.
Chalk pastel on paper, Untitled, by by Nigel
I looked often into the eyes and face of my Grandmother.
It was easier than trying to follow her mouth which could run
laps around mine and always had an agenda of it’s own. Her
words would come fast with piercing questions about all the
real things. She would listen to my answer until she had heard
what she looking for, then she would interrupt with the next
question. Her phone conversations lasted about two minutes;
yet cover everything significant in my life, a snapshot into my
head and my heart. Her eyes would tell a different story. They
twinkle with laughter, shining out warmth. The corners of them
wrinkle when she laughs, which was often. She always looks
to the side, and then raises her finger when she feels she is
about to be done. Her hair is perfectly permed and curled. It
grew thinner every time I saw her, just as she did, but it never
loses its character. I see her eyes in my mother, who is the more
patient but an equally loving version of her. They are big, brown
and round and they roll when she laughs like pebbles tumbling
down a streambed.
Laughs like pebbles, read by Nigel Grenier, 2013.
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mixed tribez
mixed tribez