“Your granddaddy don’t dance, and your grandma don’t rock n’ roll like mine…”
What would it take me to speak up, to hoot and holler and say “hey, y’all I have a story to tell”?
They killed my clown. Oh, it’s just this fantasy in my head. They didn’t really kill my clown, there’s not even really a ‘they’. My grandpa died is all. He was a clown, and he died, and that damn near killed me.
And the curious thing is, I have no idea if he believed himself. I mean, I know grandma does?—?she’s that whole evangelical pentecostal holy spirit healing and hoopla kind of religiousity, something that I saw plenty more of being raised in the South.
… but that’s not the point either, the point is simply, you died.
Grandpa died. Grandma Hilton is all I have left.
It’s time to start telling stories.
— I’m testing my voice. I’m testing with a tease. Please offer critique, I get by with a little help of my friends. My friends have always been on the internet.