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of pills and brew, he’ll talk
about growing up in a little
backwater town maybe
six hours north of here.
Sweetwater may not be so
very far from San Antonio,
but it’s a wide world apart.
We were possum poor and not
exactly unhappy being that way.
’Course we didn’t know better.
My pa was a born-again Baptist,
and Sunday was the best day
of the week because Baptists
respect the Sabbath. Weren’t
no cotton rows hoed on Sunday,
that’s for sure. Not a single one.
His accent is honey-thick Texas.
But Aunt Cora’s is a mild imitation.
She moved to California young,
when Maureen divorced Grandfather.
Still, she carries a hint of Good
Ol’ Boy (Girl?) in her inflection.
Me? I’m fighting it, though it may
be a losing battle. Still, despite
living in Texas for most of my life,
somehow it isn’t Home. And
the really messed-up part of that
is, I have no clear idea where
Home might be. It’s not here
in San Antonio. Not with Grandfather
