My Brother Thought I Was Delivering to the Country Club

my grandmother’s watch sat cool against my wrist.

She was the only person in that family who’d ever looked at me like I wasn’t a temporary embarrassment.

Not because she was soft. Nana June wasn’t soft a day in her life. She smoked Mistys on the back porch until she was eighty, called bad wine “dishwater,” and once told Connor, at age seventeen, “If continue reading …