Young Ravens Literary Review: A Biannual Online Literary Journal
  Young Ravens Literary Review
  • Home
  • Masthead
  • Interviews
    • Issue 1 Interviews >
      • Interview with artist Ira Joel Haber
      • Interview with writer S. L. Woodford
      • Interview with poet Dayna Patterson
    • Issue 2 Interviews >
      • Interview with poet Laura Lovic-Lindsay
      • Interview with photographer Michelle Hrvat
      • Interview with author Thalia Spinrad
      • Interview with artist Bobbie Berendson W.
    • Issue 3 Interviews >
      • Interview with author Terri Glass
      • Interview with poet Michael Keshigian
      • Interview with artist Zephren Turner
    • Issue 4 Interviews >
      • Interview with Poet Anne Whitehouse
      • Interview with Artist W. Jack Savage
      • Interview with Author Krisanne Knudsen
    • Issue 5 Interviews >
      • Interview with Poet Seth Jani
      • Interview with Artist Fabrice Poussin
      • Interview with Writer Judith Kelly Quaempts
    • Issue 6 Interviews >
      • Interview with Artist Christine Stoddard
      • Interview with Poet Ricky Ray
      • Interview with Poet Christina Lovin
    • Issue 7 Interviews >
      • Interview with Artist Max Talley
      • Interview with Poet Ali Hintz
      • Interview with Author Lauren Morrow
    • Issue 8 Interviews >
      • Interview with Artist Jesse White
      • Interview with Poet Jeff Burt
      • Interview with Author Daanish Jamal
    • Issue 9 Interviews >
      • Interview with Poet Antoni Ooto
      • Interview with Artist Juan Páez
      • Interview with Writer Meg Freer
    • Issue 10 Interviews >
      • Interview with Shannon Elizabeth Gardner
      • Interview with Karen Neuberg
      • Interview with Vikram Masson
    • Issue 11 Interviews >
      • Interview with Tay Greenleaf
      • Interview with Larry D. Thacker
      • Interview with Jennifer Battisti
    • Issue 12 Interviews >
      • Interview with Shankar Ramakrishnan
      • Interview with Bella Koschalk
      • Interview with Christina Hoag
    • Issue 13 Interviews >
      • Interview with Lauren Walke
      • Interview with Michael Brockley
      • Interview with Donna Pucciani
    • Issue 14 Interviews >
      • Interview with Jemma Leigh Roe
      • Interview wtih Michael T. Young
      • Interview with Judith Ford
    • Issue 15 Interviews >
      • Interview with Richard Levine
      • Interview with Laura Erekson
      • Interview with Leslie Dianne
    • Issue 16 Interviews >
      • Interview with Richard Hanus
      • Interview with Damon Hubbs
      • Interview with Wendy K. Mages
    • Issue 17 Interviews >
      • Interview with Matina Vossou
      • Interview wtih Sigrun Susan Lane
      • Interview with Ariel Mitchell Williams
  • Issues
    • Issue 1 >
      • Introduction Issue 1
      • Cover Art "Girl with Bouquet"
      • Hearing
      • Tiger Nebula & Barnacles
      • 3 Poems by Dayna Patterson
      • A Fruitful Tale
      • 3 Photographs of Spain
      • Sea Ice & Touch the Sun
      • Toad Hunting
      • Touch of Rainbow
      • Moon over Venice & Fontana di Trevi
      • Longboat Key Beach
      • Seashells & Colored Grove
      • Driving Home from the Bar with Frankie, Winter
      • You are the Vision
      • The Embroidery (Vyshyvanka)
      • Safe, Sound
    • Issue 2 >
      • Cover art by Tommy Ottley
      • YR2 Introduction
      • YR2 Bobbie Berendson W.
      • YR2 Laura Madeline Wiseman
      • YR2 Robert A. Kaufman
      • YR2 Laura Lovic-Lindsay
      • YR2 Rebecca Page
      • YR2 Lanette Cadle
      • YR2 Michelle Hrvat
      • YR2 Heather Monson
      • YR2 Maria S. Picone
      • YR2 Mary Bast
      • YR2 Bridget Gage-Dixon
      • YR2 Liz & Elisa Pulido
      • YR2 Katherine Simmons
      • YR2 Thalia Spinrad
      • YR2 Wilda Morris
      • YR2 Ruth Foley
      • YR2 Brent Danley Jones
      • YR2 Sarah Sadie
    • Issue 3 >
      • Cover Art by Zephren Turner
      • YR3 Introduction
      • YR3 Michael Keshigian
      • YR3 Natalie Luehr
      • YR3 Fern G. Z. Carr
      • YR3 Elizabeth Perdomo
      • YR3 Anandi Wilkinson
      • YR3 Terri Glass
      • YR3 Brendan Walsh
      • YR3 Heidi Morrell
      • YR3 Marianne Szlyk
      • YR3 Rachel Bownik
      • YR3 Dennis Trujillo
      • YR3 Dani Dymond
      • YR3 Sylvia Ashby
      • YR3 W. Jack Savage
      • YR3 Krisanne Hastings Knudsen
      • YR3 Dayna Patterson
      • YR3 Mary Buchinger
      • YR3 Linda M. Crate
      • YR3 Nels Hanson
      • YR3 Stephen L. Peck
      • YR3 Debbie Barr
      • YR3 Joanne Esser
      • YR3 Anne Whitehouse
      • YR3 Emily Strauss
    • Issue 4 >
      • Cover art by Kurt Knudsen
      • Introduction: the heart of cyclicity
      • YR4 Page Turner
      • YR4 Randel McCraw Helms
      • YR4 Anne Whitehouse
      • YR4 Bridget Gage-DIxon
      • YR4 Lisa Cook
      • YR4 Mary Stike
      • YR4 W. Jack Savage
      • YR4 Michael Pendragon
      • YR4 J. Ellington
      • YR4 Mantz Yorke
      • YR4 John Grey
      • YR4 Carl Boon
      • YR4 Lynn Otto
      • YR4 Ayendy Bonifacio
      • YR4 Yuan Changming
      • YR4 Paul Stansbury
      • YR4 Ingrid Bruck
      • YR4 Helen Patrice
      • YR4 Laura Sobbott Ross
      • YR4 Krisanne Hastings Knudsen
      • YR4 Emily Bilman
      • YR4 Kaye Linden
      • YR4 Edilson A. Ferreira
      • YR4 Jessica Lindsley
      • YR4 Michael Keshigian
    • Issue 5 >
      • YR5 Introduction
      • YR5 Kirchheimer & Piudik
      • YR5 Robert Ford
      • YR5 Mark A. Fisher
      • YR5 Eli T. Mond
      • YR5 Dani Dymond
      • YR5 Seth Jani
      • YR5 Tonya Hamill (Poetry)
      • YR5 Kersten Christianson
      • YR5 Ed Higgins
      • YR5 Thomas Piekarski
      • YR5 Don Thompson
      • YR5 Marc Carver
      • YR5 Carol Smallwood
      • YR5 Mackenzie Dwyer
      • YR5 Michael Keshigian
      • YR5 Banwynn (Suta) Oakshadow
      • YR5 Terri Simon
      • YR5 Richard Fein
      • YR5 Andrew Hubbard
      • YR5 Matthew Burns
      • YR5 Allison Gish
      • YR5 Judith Kelly Quaempts
      • YR5 Anthony Rubino
      • YR5 Tonya Hamill (Art)
      • YR5 Jennie Harward
      • YR5 Chad M. Horn
      • YR5 Shandi Kano
      • YR5 Fabrice Poussin
      • YR5 Alec Solomita
      • YR5 Review
    • Issue 6 >
      • YR6 Introduction
      • YR6 Christine Stoddard
      • YR6 Ahrend Torrey
      • YR6 Jenn Powers
      • YR6 Felicia Mitchell
      • YR6 Brandon Marlon
      • YR6 Natalie Luehr
      • YR6 Sarah Rehfeldt
      • YR6 Terri Glass
      • YR6 Christina Lovin
      • YR6 Kelly DuMar
      • YR6 Joan White
      • YR6 Peggy Turnbull
      • YR6 Nate Maxson
      • YR6 Vivian Wagner
      • YR6 Tushar Jain
      • YR6 Gordon Kippola
      • YR6 Randel McCraw Helms
      • YR6 Ashley Park Owens - Art
      • YR6 Marianne Peel
      • YR6 Lindsey S. Frantz
      • YR6 Mark Bonica
      • YR6 Ed Krizek
      • YR6 Ricky Ray
      • YR6 Edilson Ferreira
      • YR6 Anne Whitehouse
      • YR6 Cat Dixon
      • YR6 Barbara Brooks
      • YR6 William Doreski
      • YR6 John Grey
      • YR6 Michael Keshigian
      • YR6 Maureen Solomon
      • YR6 Kersten Christianson
      • YR6 Jennifer Liston
      • YR6 Shawna Sommerstad
      • YR6 Ashley Parker Owens - Poetry
      • YR6 Claire Blotter
      • YR6 Zev Torres
    • Issue 7 >
      • Introduction Issue 7
      • YR7 Max Talley
      • YR7 Thomas O'Connell
      • YR7 Fabrice Poussin
      • YR7 Archita Mittra
      • YR7 Ali Hintz
      • YR7 Lucía Damacela
      • YR7 Steven Sher
      • YR7 Cynthia Blank
      • YR7 Kathryn Knight Sonntag
      • YR7 Holly Day
      • YR7 Judy Shepps Battle
      • YR7 Allegra Forman
      • YR7 Kristen Wood
      • YR7 Sarah Rehfeldt
      • YR7 Don Thompson
      • YR7 Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz
      • YR7 Dan Brook
      • YR7 Michael Maul
      • YR7 Dennis Trujillo
      • YR7 Lauren Morrow
      • YR7 Daginne Aignend
      • YR7 Ann Christine Tabaka
      • YR7 Judith Kelly Quaempts
      • YR7 Michael Keshigian
      • YR7 Karen Poppy
      • YR7 Matthew Barron
      • YR7 Krikor Der Hohannesian
      • YR7 Linda M. Crate
      • YR7 Natalie Schriefer
      • YR7 Bob Carlton
      • YR7 Roger Sippl
      • YR7 Jake Sheff
      • YR7 Dan Brook - NF
      • YR7 Jim Zola
      • YR7 Kelsey May
      • YR7 Mark A. Fisher
      • YR7 Meg Freer
      • YR7 Chris Connolly
      • YR7 DJ Hill
      • YR7 Mantz Yorke
      • YR7 Mark J. Mitchell
    • Issue 8 >
      • Issue 8 Introduction
      • YR8 Jesse White
      • YR8 Barbara A. Meier
      • YR8 Meg Freer
      • YR8 Andrea Wolper
      • YR8 Emily Warzeniak - Art
      • YR8 Emily Warzeniak - Poetry
      • YR8 Parul Gupta
      • YR8 Robert Beveridge
      • YR8 Chris Stolle
      • YR8 Maria Pascualy
      • YR8 Daanish Jamal
      • YR8 Roberta Senechal de la Roche
      • YR8 Wendy Schmidt
      • YR8 Kevin Casey
      • YR8 Constantin Preda
      • YR8 Suzanne S. Rancourt
      • YR8 Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz
      • YR8 Judith Kelly Quaempts
      • YR8 Jeff Burt
      • YR8 Michael Keshigian
      • YR8 Ray Ball
    • Issue 9 >
      • YR9 Introduction
      • YR9 Juan Paez
      • YR9 Antoni Ooto
      • YR9 Dennis Trujillo
      • YR9 Kersten Christianson
      • YR9 Stephen Register
      • YR9 Rasma Haidri
      • YR9 John Grey
      • YR9 Terri Glass
      • YR9 Meg Freer - Art
      • YR9 Keith Moul
      • YR9 Thomas Piekarski
      • YR9 Jared Pearce
      • YR9 Sunil Sharma
      • YR9 Paul Bluestein
      • YR9 Linda M. Crate
      • YR9 Meg Freer
      • YR9 Hugh Cook
      • YR9 Marc Carver
      • YR9 Mary Buchinger
      • YR9 Edilson Ferreira
      • YR9 Robert Wexelblatt
      • YR9 Don Thomposon
    • Issue 10 >
      • Issue 10 Introduction
      • YR10 Shannon Elizabeth Gardner
      • YR10 Vikram Masson
      • YR10 Randel McCraw Helms
      • YR10 A1 Shelby Lynn Lanaro
      • YR10 Nate Maxson
      • YR10 Ed Ruzicka
      • YR10 Carol Alena Aronoff
      • YR10 Wendy Schmidt
      • YR10 Meg Freer
      • YR10 Marly Youmans
      • YR10 Diane Dickinson
      • YR10 Anne Whitehouse
      • YR10 Susan Blevins
      • YR10 Shelby Lynn Lanaro
      • YR10 McKenzie Lynn Tozan
      • YR10 Christian Mack
      • YR10 Bridget Gage-Dixon
      • YR10 A1 Edward Lee
      • YR10 Richard Luftig
      • YR10 Rachael Nazzaro
      • YR10 Jan Ball
      • YR10 Michael Keshigian
      • YR10 Anne Doran
      • YR10 George Moore
      • YR10 Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
      • YR10 Fabrice Poussin
      • YR10 Edward Lee
      • YR10 Edilson Ferreira
      • YR10 Juliette Sebock
      • YR10 Eve Lyons
      • YR10 Tamam Kahn
      • YR10 Patrick Haas
      • YR10 Victoria Elizabeth Ruwi
      • YR10 Tim Kahl
      • YR10 Jennifer Stuart
      • YR10 Laura Stringfellow
      • YR10 Mary Anna Kruch
      • YR10 Tracee Clapper
      • YR10 Marianne Szlyk
      • YR10 Robin Wright
      • YR10 Cynthia Elder
      • YR10 Agnes Vojta
      • YR10 Karen Neuberg
      • YR10 Antoni Ooto
      • YR10 DS Maolailai
      • YR10 Cheryl Caesar
      • YR10 Alec Solomita
      • YR10 Hibah Shabkhez
    • Issue 11 >
      • Issue 11 Introduction
      • YR11 MD Marcus
      • YR11 Donna Pucciani
      • YR11 Edilson Ferreira
      • YR11 John Sweet
      • YR11 Holly Day
      • YR11 Antoni Ooto
      • YR11 Judy DeCroce
      • YR11 Mark J. Mitchell
      • YR11 Margaret King
      • YR11 Meg Freer - Poetry
      • YR11 John Grey
      • YR11 Randel McCraw Helms
      • YR11 Lily Beaumont
      • YR11 Katherine Johnson
      • YR11 Gary Duehr
      • YR11 Fariel Shafee
      • YR11 Tay Greenleaf
      • YR11 J.I. Kleinberg
      • YR11 Barbara A. Meier
      • YR11 Rebecca Fullan
      • YR11 Duane Anderson
      • YR11 Jennifer Battisti
      • YR11 Dayna Patterson
      • YR11 Fabrice Poussin
      • YR11 Meg Freer - Art
      • YR11 Janina Aza Karpinska
      • YR11 Larry D. Thacker
      • YR11 Bob MacKenzie
    • Issue 12 >
      • YR12 Introduction
      • YR12 Bella Koschalk
      • YR12 Lori Levy
      • YR12 Anne Whitehouse
      • YR12 Barbara A. Meier
      • YR12 Charlotte Fong
      • YR12 Sivakami Velliangiri
      • YR12 Vivian Wagner
      • YR12 Bailey Bujnosek
      • YR12 Joan Leotta
      • YR12 Kelley White
      • YR12 Bob MacKenzie
      • YR12 Richard Luftig
      • YR12 Judith Kelly Quaempts
      • YR12 Janette Schafer
      • YR12 John Kaprielian
      • YR12 Antoni Ooto
      • YR12 Shelby Lynn Lanaro - Poetry
      • YR12 Ann Weil
      • YR12 Ellen Dooling Reynard
      • YR12 Randel McCraw Helms
      • YR12 Stephanie Hauer
      • YR12 Stephen Kingsnorth
      • YR12 Cynthia Trenshaw
      • YR12 Shobhana Kumar
      • YR12 Phoebe Backer
      • YR12 Christina Hoag
      • YR12 Shankar Ramakrishnan
      • YR12 Meg Freer
      • YR12 Bob MacKenze - Art
      • YR12 Shelby Lynn Lanaro - Art
      • YR12 Christopher Woods
      • YR12 John L. Stanizzi
    • Issue 13 >
      • YR13 Introduction
      • YR13 Donna Pucciani
      • YR13 Marie C Lecrivain
      • YR13 Anne Whitehouse
      • YR13 George R. Kramer
      • YR13 Vern Fein
      • YR13 Terri Glass
      • YR13 August Smith
      • YR13 Don Thompson
      • YR13 John Raffetto
      • YR13 JBMulligan
      • YR13 Gordon Kippola
      • YR13 Meg Smith
      • YR13 Theric Jepson
      • YR13 Melanie Cox
      • YR13 Shannon Cuthbert
      • YR13 Preeth Ganapathy
      • YR13 Laurinda Lind
      • YR13 Michael Brockley
      • YR13 Lauren Walke
      • YR13 Page Turner
      • YR13 Meg Freer
      • YR13 Cheryl Johnson
      • YR13 Dayna Patterson
      • YR13 Charles J. March III
    • Issue 14 >
      • YR14 Introduction
      • YR14 Agnes Vojta
      • YR14 Michael T. Young
      • YR14 L. Ward Abel
      • YR14 Kelly Morgan
      • YR14 DS Maolalai
      • YR14 Judith Kelly Quaempts
      • YR14 Anneliese Kvamme
      • YR14 Claire Drucker
      • YR14 Anne Whitehouse
      • YR14 August Smith
      • YR14 George Moore
      • YR14 Jennifer Schomburg Kanke
      • YR14 Gena Schwam
      • YR14 Angele Ellis
      • YR14 Matthew Mayes
      • YR14 Jennifer Novotney
      • YR14 Cameron Morse
      • YR14 Shelby Lynn Lanaro
      • YR14 Kate Meyer-Currey
      • YR14 Mark Heathcote
      • YR14 Arlene Weiner
      • YR14 Rebecca Patrascu
      • YR14 Gabrielle Langley
      • YR14 Gary Lark
      • YR14 Michael Keshigian
      • YR14 Cathy Shang
      • YR14 Linda M. Crate
      • YR14 Mark A. Fisher
      • YR14 Jerin Anne Jacob
      • YR14 Randel McCraw Helms
      • YR14 Jack D. Harvey
      • YR14 Ana Pugatch
      • YR14 Tracy Donohue
      • YR14 Roger Singer
      • YR14 Judith Ford
      • YR14 Dayna Patterson
      • YR14 Jemma Leigh Roe
      • YR14 Maxwell Suzuki
      • YR14 Meg Freer
    • Issue 15 >
      • YR15 Introduction
      • YR15 Richard Levine
      • YR15 Mark J. Mitchell
      • YR15 Rob Piazza
      • YR15 Luke Maguire Armstrong
      • YR15 Aaron Hahn
      • YR15 Morgan Bazilian
      • YR15 Christopher Clauss
      • YR15 Randel McCraw Helms
      • YR15 Judith Kelly Quaempts
      • YR15 Anne Whitehouse
      • YR15 Lea Galanter
      • YR15 Ursula O'Reilly
      • YR15 Mark Hammerschick
      • YR15 Brendan Todt
      • YR15 Greg Hill
      • YR15 Seth Ketchem
      • YR15 Nolo Segundo
      • YR15 Elizabeth McCarthy
      • YR15 Cameron Morse
      • YR15 Bruce McRae
      • YR15 Stephen Mead
      • YR15 Leslie Dianne
      • YR15 Laura Erekson
      • YR15 Jamie Ortolano
      • YR15 Robin Wright
      • YR15 Lauren Walke
      • YR15 Page Turner
      • YR15 Paola Bidinelli
      • YR15 Edward Lee
    • Issue 16 >
      • YR16 Introduction
      • YR16 Sharon Wright Mitchell
      • YR16 Mitchell Untch
      • YR16 Lynn White
      • YR16 Kate Falvey
      • YR16 Hamad Al-Rayes
      • YR16 Daniel A. Rabuzzi
      • YR16 Damon Hubbs
      • YR16 Tricia Lloyd Waller
      • YR16 Johanna Haas
      • YR16 Meg Freer
      • YR16 Ethan Blakley
      • YR16 Cameron Morse
      • YR16 Michael Keshigian
      • YR16 Anne Whitehouse
      • YR16 Marie-Elizabeth Mali
      • YR16 Allen Ashley
      • YR16 Kersten Christianson
      • YR16 Kyle Singh
      • YR16 Shari Lawrence Pfleeger
      • YR16 GTimothy Gordon
      • YR16 Ursula O'Reilly
      • YR16 Meekha Roper
      • YR16 Fabrice Poussin
      • YR16 Peycho Kanev
      • YR16 Stevenson & Auclair
      • YR16 Wendy K. Mages
      • YR16 Richard Hanus
      • YR16 Cynthia Yatchman
      • YR16 Jared Rich
      • YR16 Carl Scharwath
      • YR16 Kersten Christianson-Art
      • YR16 Meg Freer-Art
    • Issue 17 >
      • YR17 Introduction
      • YR17 Merryn Rutlege
      • YR17 Sigrun Susan Lane
      • YR17 Elizabeth McCarthy
      • YR17 Kersten Christianson
      • YR17 Alixa Brobbey
      • YR17 Sharon Lopez Mooney
      • YR17 Mary Alice Williams
      • YR17 Ann M Lawrence
      • YR17 Lauren Cox
      • YR17 Karla Linn Merrifield
      • YR17 Chloë Rain
      • YR17 Colette Tennant
      • YR17 Anne Whitehouse
      • YR17 Elizabeth Cranford Garcia
      • YR17 Holly Day
      • YR17 Darlene Young
      • YR17 Robin Wright
      • YR17 Sandra Salinas Newton
      • YR17 Nancy Machlis Rechtman
      • YR17 Dorothy Johnson-Laird
      • YR17 Adrienne Stevenson
      • YR17 Diana Raab
      • YR17 Shirley Harshenin
      • YR17 V. Bray
      • YR17 Christa Fairbrother
      • YR17 Ariel Mitchell Williams-Fiction
      • YR17 Ariel Mitchell Williams-NF
      • YR17 Liz Busby
      • YR17 Matina Vossou
      • YR17 Wendy Lou Schmidt
      • YR17 Richard Hanus
  • Submission Guidelines
  • About Us
Sorry, LuAnn

by

Lauren Morrow

When Sam invited me to join him on a trip to visit his sick grandfather in Mississippi, I said, “absolutely not.” I had no interest in venturing south of the Mason Dixon line, not with my chestnut skin and head of coils. Even less appealing was the idea of spending time with a dying old white man whom I’d never met.

Sam’s grandfather was in the final stages of Alzheimer’s, and despite the fact that he’d invited me with open arms to their beach house on the Gulf Coast the summer before – even after Sam revealed my identity via a picture on his phone – I feared that the disease would pull him back to his true self, the man bred in Tupelo who’d probably thought nothing of the occasional black man he’d seen hanging from a tree on his boyhood walks to school.

Maybe I’d have agreed to go immediately a few years ago, when Sam and I had just begun dating. When we’d just re-elected our first black president and things were about to change. When hope floated in the stratosphere, just out of reach. But not now. Now it was clear that things had not changed so much. It was like someone was holding up a giant mirror, and we thought we were looking at old Civil Rights era footage, but we were really looking at ourselves.

So I declined Sam’s invitation.

“I get it,” he said, tucked up under a blanket on the couch. Since his grandfather’s health had taken such a sharp turned, he’d curled into depression with ease. I sat beside him, pulled the blanket over my lap. “I don’t even like to go down there myself anymore.” He rubbed his hand over my cheek, and his cloudy blue eyes welled. But he didn’t cry.
“So you’re not mad?” I asked.

“Hardly. I never want to put you in a position where you feel uncomfortable. And I honestly can’t guarantee that wouldn’t happen in Tupelo.” I grabbed his hand. It was as soft as mine, the nails clean and cut short. The last time his had father had visited, he’d made fun of Sam’s large but delicate hands, how they looked as if he’d never once done a hard day’s work. He had worked, of course, but his work was cerebral, not physical. I loved his hands.

“What would you do if something happened down there?” I asked.

“If anyone even looked at you funny I’d knock him out.”

“With your soft, PhD candidate fists?”

“Yeah,” he said, balling his hands up near his face.” “I’d knock him right in the kisser with these jumbo cotton balls.”
I rolled my eyes and cozied into his chest.

“But really,” I said, tracing his knuckles with my fingers. “What if something happened?”

“I can’t guarantee that no one will say anything stupid or even racist. But I’ll do all I can to stop it. And I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. Never.”

Sam never said never. He didn’t believe in that kind of certainty. So when he said it now, I felt warm and full. My heart thumped beneath his hand. I trusted him.

From the beginning of our relationship, Sam had always shared memories of his grandfather with me. He preferred the old man to his own parents, whom he found bland and guarded. He liked to tell me stories:

“Once, when I was little, Pop Pop decided to make lunch for all of us. We had just gotten back from the beach, and Mama Dee’s back was burnt red. Her mouth fell open when he offered. He hadn’t so much as poured his own glass of milk in 30 years, probably. But she was so sunburnt and tired from the beach that she let him. The rest of us sat on the porch drinking sweet tea, until Pop Pop shouted “soup’s up!” We went inside to find the table set, plates of sandwiches and potato salad for everyone. All of us held hands as Pop Pop said grace, and we bit into the sandwiches. We nearly gagged. They were filled with molasses and pickles. He could barely breathe he was laughing so hard. Dad started hollering, then everyone else did, mad because we were so hungry from the beach, and all we’d been thinking about for the last half hour was lunch. Everyone yelled except Mama Dee, who sat there eating her ham and cheese sandwich. Because he knew better. He wouldn’t dare mess with Mama Dee.”

But he would pull no pranks this time around. I grew sad at the thought of Sam traveling all those hours and miles alone just be with his distant parents, and his no-longer-there Pop Pop. It sounded miserable. Unfair. Somehow, his sadness became mine, while at the same time a fearlessness grew within me. The worst that might happen on the trip, I determined, was that I’d become bored. And so, I changed my mind and said ‘yes.’ He had flown home with me to my grandmother’s funeral, sat through the hours of tears and holy ghosts, held me through nights of mourner’s insomnia. I could manage a couple of quiet days in Mississippi.

But as I sat beside him in O’Hare, drinking stale coffee and waiting for our flight to be called, I thought I’d made a mistake. Maybe I wasn’t meant to go down there. It might be a weird time warp, where I’d be chastised, threatened, made to feel the way my mother’s mother had felt growing up in that same state. Or maybe the visit would conjure memories of her and my other dead grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, friends, and send me into a spiral of depression to match Sam’s.

“Sorry for the delay, everyone,” the heavily made up airline attendant said over the loudspeaker. “I’ve got some good news.” Good for whom? “The plane is here, and it’s ready for ya! We’re going to begin pre-boarding in just a moment.”

Sam put his arm around me. I looked at him now for the first time since we’d sat in the crowded terminal. His eyes were red-rimmed, heavy. He pulled me in and kissed my forehead.

“Thank you,” he sighed.
 
It was dark when our flight landed in Jackson. Sam’s mom and dad were waiting for us in the parking garage. They were kind people, and his mother – petite with a gray once-blond bob – seemed more cheerful than usual.

“I love that new ‘do, Lena,” she said, looking back at me from the front seat. Her eyes were wide enough to startle me. “There is a woman at my church who wears it the same way, all natural. I think it’s just so fun. So cute!”
 
Pop Pop was Sam’s paternal grandfather, but he and Sam’s mother had grown close over nearly 40 years. She enjoyed playing bid whist with him after they’d both had a few whiskeys. Sam’s dad and Pop Pop had had a rocky relationship over the years, especially after Pop Pop had sold the house they’d grown up in. But Sam and his mom had helped to bring them back together. She’d all but forced the family to make annual trips from Memphis to Tupelo by the time Sam was in middle school, and had sidled up to Mama Dee in the kitchen, her apprentice in the ways of southern cooking. She’d learned to make an indistinguishable version of her pecan pie, Pop Pop’s favorite.

Sam’s dad sat at the wheel of the Camry, polo shirt hugging his belly, Mississippi Braves baseball hat hiding his bald spot, as always. He’d played for the minor league team after college, and bragged about it often. But tonight, he didn’t say a word.

Through the late-night darkness, I could see red flags – confederate actually - along the way. Pick up trucks boasted symbols of long-standing hatred. Bumper stickers clarified other matters. I reminded myself that we’d only be here for two days, as the car pulled into the driveway of the house.

Since Pop Pop was staying in an assisted living facility, we’d be the only ones in the house. It was late, and we were tired. I didn’t have the energy or desire to explore the house that night, and so Sam and I went to bed in separate rooms, as we’d promised his evangelical parents we would. My room was stale from lack of use, the maroon carpeting and bureau coated in years of dust. About an hour after sliding underneath the patchwork quilt that covered my bed, the door creaked open. Sam climbed in without saying a word. He wrapped his arms around me, and gave me a soft kiss on the neck. Eventually, his breath synced up with mine, and we fell asleep.
 
Everyone who worked at Briar Crest Assisted Living Facility was black. They were kind and welcoming, and had thick Delta accents. A woman at the desk whose name tag read “Charlene” offered to walk us to the room, but Sam’s parents had driven down from Memphis two days before and already knew their way around the place.

We walked past old people in wheelchairs and pushing walkers. A stale smell filled the hallways, something like urine, and rubber gloves, and Ensure all in one. Eventually, we found the room where Pop Pop lived with another man. Pop Pop was asleep when we walked in, but the other man was watching an old sitcom on TV, and didn’t seem to notice as we walked through his quarters.

Sam’s dad assured us that we could talk, we wouldn’t wake Pop Pop. They’d had a 20 minute meeting with the nurses the day before while he slept – a meeting that involved what would happen in the coming weeks, when he might lose the ability to get up to use the bathroom, to sit up on his own, to smile. Pop Pop hadn’t even flinched.

Pop Pop didn’t look as old as I’d expected. He was 90, older than any of my grandparents had lived to be, and oddly handsome. His face wasn’t stark white or ridden with lines, as I’d expected. Rather, he had as warm a color as Sam after a day on Lake Michigan, and just a few wrinkles made a moat around his mouth and eyes. Most surprisingly, he had a head full of bright white hair. His liver spotted hands rested above the blanket, and his fingers twitched now and then as he slept.

After a few minutes a nurse came in with a tray of food. She had wide hips and a long, silky black ponytail. She smiled, exposing a single gold tooth among her pearly whites.

“Ima leave this right here,” she said, placing the tray on Pop Pop’s bedside table, “so he can have it when he wake up.” We all nodded in thanks. “Now if he say it ain’t here when I come back, I know who to blame.” She pointed two manicured nails at Sam’s parents, then at the two of us, pursing her lips together in a smirk. We all laughed.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” said his mom. The tray’s compartments were each filled with an unidentifiable soft food, all muted colors and seemingly room temperature. Sam’s mom had baked a pecan pie that morning, a surprise for Pop Pop. The smell emanated from the pie carrier, and we were all eager to dig into it once Pop Pop woke up. His mom even told the nurse she’d save her a slice, and she let out an “alright now!” that reminded me of my grandmother.

As the nurse left, Pop Pop opened his eyes. He looked at Sam for a long time without saying anything, his eyes milky grey. His focus shifted to Sam’s parents, looking back and forth between them. This went on for a while, before he reached up his left hand and knocked over the water pitcher with one swipe.

Sam’s mom stood up, and immediately grabbed a towel from the bathroom. I stood too, thinking I should help, or do something other than take up space in the room. But she was quick and cleaned up the mess before I had time to determine my purpose.

“You hungry, Pop?” asked Sam’s dad. “The nurse brought you some food.” The old man turned his head to see the tray.

“That don’t look nothing like food to me!” he shouted, his voice deep and gravely. “I’m not eatin’ that mess.”

He hadn’t been eating much of anything, Sam’s dad had told us, and it showed once he sat up. His collar bone protruded, and his calloused hands shook.

“Well good news,” said Sam’s mom. “Look what I brought you.” She opened the carrier and pulled out the fresh pecan pie. It was finally cool enough to cut, but still smelled of warm caramel. We all perked up, eager for something sweet.

“What’s that?”

“Pop Pop,” she said, “it’s your favorite. Pecan pie!”

He looked at the pie.

“Just like Mama Dee used to make.”

He looked at her, then back at the pie.

“Alright, give me a slice.”

As she began to cut into the pie, Sam spoke up.

“So, how are you feeling today, Pop Pop?” He stared at Sam as though listening to him to speak to someone else. “How are you feeling?” he asked again.

“Me?” He looked from side to side. Well, I feel like shit, to be quite honest. How you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” said Sam.

“You’ll be worse,” said Pop Pop, laying back. Sam’s mom placed a piece of pie on the tray next to the hospital food. He picked up the plate, dug the fork in, and took a bite.

“How am I supposed to eat this?” he mumbled. “Too chewy!” The pie stuck to the roof of his mouth, his tongue, his teeth – still originals. He spit the remnants onto his plate and sucked at stuck caramel.

Sam’s mom dropped the knife on top of the pie. She pressed her eyes shut, and left the room. She said she was going to find something for him to eat, but we could hear her begin to cry before she made it to the hallway. Sam’s dad followed her. He watched as they left, but didn’t follow. He moved to the chair closest to Pop Pop, where his dad had been seated.

“Pop Pop, I missed you,” he said. “I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve been down to visit.” Pop Pop looked at him, but didn’t react. “It’s just, I’ve been so busy, and flights are kind of expensive.” Silence. “This is Lena, my girlfriend. I showed you a picture of her, remember?”
Even at my mention, Pop Pop wouldn’t look at me. His hands shook in his lap as he stared at his grandson.

“You Connie’s boy?” he asked.

“Pop Pop,” Sam said, irritated. “Come on, I’m Sam. Doug’s son.” He spoke like this for a while, attempting to somehow crack the code for Pop Pop, make him realize that he was his grandson. The kid he’d played ball with in the summers, whom he’d taught how to bone a fish. But Pop Pop wouldn’t budge, just glanced back and forth between Sam and his own lap. “You know me, Pop Pop!” He was getting more frustrated, as Pop Pop grew more and more interested in his own hands. Sam wasn’t sad anymore, but angry. Finally, he stood.

“I can’t do this,” he said to me. “Let’s go check on my parents.”

I thought of his mother having her breakdown, either in their Camry or in the cafeteria, pretending to look for soft-enough foods.
“You go,” I said. “I’ll stay here.”

“Really? Are you sure you – “

“I’m sure,” I said, grateful for the prospect of quiet. “I’ll stay.” He kissed me on my forehead and looked into my eyes, a final, silent are you sure? I smiled, nodded.

For the first couple of minutes, I joined Pop Pop in staring at his trembling hands. Bones under polka-dotted skin. I don’t remember ever finding someone at once so terrifying and so pitiful. He’d not looked at me the entire time, and that had stung enough. But could he continue to ignore me now that we sat in the room alone, abandoned? I scanned up his body. His chest, covered in pale blue nightgown, heaved up and down. His lips were chapped, his nostrils flared. Finally, our eyes met. I felt my stomach curl into itself. The TV hummed in the background. I held my breath.

He didn’t say anything at first, just breathed, his eyes locked on me. I glanced toward the door, but Sam and his parents were nowhere in sight. I’d done this to myself. I waited for Pop Pop to say something horrible. I almost wanted him to. I swallowed slowly and deliberately. I wondered if he could hear it from where he sat.

“How did you find me?” he said finally. His voice held a higher pitch than before. He sounded ashamed and confused.

“I...Sam brought me - ”

“I don’t know how you found me, LuAnn,” he said, a smile sneaking across his lips, just briefly, “but it sure is good to see you.”
I smiled, but was afraid to speak, to break the spell.

“Will you come here, just for a moment?”

I thought about leaving the room, but the smile on Pop Pop’s face was gentle and sincere. I moved to the chair by his bedside, and he grabbed my hand before I had time to consider what was happening. I sat beside him, and he looked into my eyes, his – eyes that had seen the world since 1926 – now swirling with tears.

“I’m so sorry, LuAnn.” He began to cry quietly. “I just had to go.” He now had my hand in both of his and rubbed it gently. “I wish things were different. I do.” He pulled my hand to his lips and gave it a sandpapery kiss that startled and soothed me at once. I stood, bent down, and wrapped my arms around his frail body. My fingers graced his bare back through the loose gown. His face nuzzled into my shoulder, and I held him close as he shook with the sadness of lost love. “I’m so, so sorry, LuAnn.”
 
No one talked during the car ride home. Everyone was spent, eyes dry, heads aching.

 “What do you kids want for dinner?” Sam’s mom asked, putting on as much cheer as she could muster.
 
“Whatever,” Sam said. “I’m so hungry I could eat anything right now.”

“I’ve got almost a whole pecan pie,” she said, forcing a laugh.

“Can we just go pick up some groceries?” Sam said, tired of his mom’s false optimism.

“Fine.”

It was dark when we got home from the store. Sam’s parents went into the kitchen to start dinner, and he and I lay down on the couch, the TV humming before us. He told me how sad it had made him to see Pop Pop like that. They’d had so much fun together, even up until last year. He didn’t understand how someone could change so much so quickly.

I told him “that’s how it happens,” as though I knew anything about Alzheimer’s, or life, or death. I suggested that he should celebrate Pop Pop and what a long, full life he’d had. Sam apologized, knowing that none of my grandparents had lived to be nearly as old.

I stood up.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked.

“I never got a chance to look around the house,” I said. “What we saw today wasn’t an accurate representation of Pop Pop. I want to see what this guy was all about. Show me around.”

Sam took me into the den, and showed me all of Pop Pop’s golf trophies and war medals. We went into his bedroom, which was quite bare, with the exception of a pile of sweaters and a jewelry box that had belonged to Mama Dee, who’d died two years before.

We went into the hallway, where Sam turned on the lights to expose a museum of his family. Nearly a century of photographs lined either wall. Black and white, color, five generations. There were pictures of Sam’s dad holding him as a baby, and of his dad being held by Pop Pop in a nearly identical photo. There was a photo of Sam’s parents on their wedding day, and a similar photo of Pop Pop and Mama Dee on theirs. I looked at each and every photo on the wall. Everyone was beautiful, and healthy, and happy.

“Soup’s up!” shouted Sam’s dad from the kitchen.

Sam made his way to the dining room, but I lingered for a moment longer. There was a beautiful sepia tone photo of Pop Pop and Mama Dee on the Gulf Shore. They were young. It must have been before they’d had Sam’s dad, maybe even before they’d been married. They stood, backs to the ocean, his arms wrapped around her. She looked directly into the camera, laughing big, and he rested his chin atop her head, eyes closed, a slight smile peeking through. Almost like he was dreaming.




Lauren Morrow is a St. Louis-born, Brooklyn-based arts publicist and writer. She earned a B.A. in English with a concentration in Creative Writing from Connecticut College, and her work has appeared in Soon Quarterly.


Proudly powered by Weebly