Joelene pretty up

pretty up

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 a train.

And ew, he’s not my uncle.

Mamaw just likes 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 Papaw loves to drone about, I didn’t know he would be 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 calls panties rags.

I raced down the stairs at the speed of light.

Floral pink nightie and barefeet.

I’d take all the prick from the grass-ants and squishy mud.

I kept on my best behavior. 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.”

So 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.

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