Grandma Sevigne Sydney Mantay
“M
y heart, go get the flour.” Beads of sweat gather at the ends of my baby hairs as I look up at her, confused. She says again, “Flour,” this time with undertones of frustration and pain. She cannot tell if I am stupid or if I cannot understand English. With a final huff and mumbled words she continues to prepare the meat. I know I will not get any further direction until I fulfill her request. Tears run hot in her dark kitchen. Her cataracts cannot handle the harsh light of fluorescent bulbs. Light from the foggy window casts shadows on her high cheekbones and strong nose. Her pursed lips hold the tension; hurt that I cannot understand her words and disappointed that her accent engulfs her identity. I open every cabinet and stick my head through, hoping I will find what she wants or the courage to ask her again. I crawl in and take my time. I sit and wait. I hear the door creak open, pursed lips turned smooth and red. “My heart, come help me.” We don’t speak. She heats the oil in a pan and begins frying the meat. I relax at the sound of melanesia floating in bubbly oil. I lay my head on the cold marble countertop and watch her move around the kitchen, a bit stiff, but strong. I feel the guilt hang low around my shoulders. I’ve heard her cry about what Americans think of her when she speaks, how her words get lost.
Spring 2021
Flash Essay 43
