(for P. F. Kluge)
My grandmother died in the shavings and crumbs of the newspaper clippings we stripped from her wall, long before her family checked her into Mercy Hospital, long before her mouth hung open in a room white as salt. When we moved her outside the city, when we settled her in a modern wood home with no stairs and an electric oven, in a neighborhood of the near-dead, she’d already given up the ghost. It was after her house finally sold, on that night in June: we peeled the skin from her kitchen, pulled the teeth from her living room.
Memory’s not like rewinding a tape—it’s a feeling like gas rising from the stomach to the throat, a feeling like standing up after a dinner of gnocchi and three glasses of red wine and wincing as blood and drunkenness flood the head.