Joelene

So Papaw--I call him that sometimes

because of my accent.

It's pronounced like Papa-ya.

It means Daddy, Dad, Father,

Pops. Sperm Donor.

He had plans to pick Uncle Eric up,

at the subway station.

He was coming by train.

And ew, he's not my uncle.

Mamaw just liked to call him that.

But I don't.

Because how could he be

when I'm this in love with him?

Before I finally met the man

that Papaw loved to drone about,

I didn't know he would have been this...

Handsome.

But I wanted to go with them

to pick him up,

so when Mamaw called out:

"Jo! Jo-Jo! Go get

those rags off the line!"

She called panties, rags.

I raced down the stairs

at the speed of light.

Floral pink nightie

and bare feet.

I'd take all the prick from the

grass-ants and squishy mud.

I kept on my best behaviour.

Washed all the egg grease

and ketchup stains from the plates.

Mop the floors with bleach.

Then Mamaw said: "you can come,

go put on sumn' propaw."

I struggled to hook my bra.

And fought with my bangs.

And chose a good frock.

And in my head,

I was lighting up a cigar

and snapping a picture of myself.

Oh, uNcLe Eric.

He was a storm,

I didn't know was coming.

But young girls

don't prepare for storms.

Nah, they don't.

Their parents do.

They only sit by the table

and play

with the molten wax from the candle.

And form hand animals with their shadows.

And pretend to be a ghost whisperer.

Mamaw never did prepare me for this hurricane.

And neither did Papaw.