husks

Standing in front of the museum is a patch of corn. Green stalks stand in soldierly lines. Enfolded in leaves, the yellow ears stay hidden. *** I clutch his dimpled fingers. “The Indians—I mean the Native Americans—I mean the Indigenous Peoples-lived in our country for thousands of years.” Before Abraham Lincoln? He asks. Before George Washington? Before Christopher Columbus? Inside we see triangle tents, hollowed boats, stones smoothed by pounding. The gift shop is filled with feathered wreaths and turquoise rings. He grabs a stuffed bison and pulls on its horns. Can I have it? He asks. I wanna I wanna I wanna He is my child’s child. I am sixty-two years old, a veteran of toddler tears and adolescent skirmishes. Still I measure my thoughts and my gestures. Do I tell him whole stories or half-truths? Do I cater to his whims? Do I withhold my needs? Grandparenting is a do-over, an opportunity to set things right, to heal old wounds. I wanna I wanna I wanna *** Like an ear of corn, I peel back one layer at a time. It would be so easy to open my purse, to paint the past with broad brushstrokes, to sugarcoat pain, to give him the world. Instead we drink a coke.

Marlene Olin's stories have been published in over thirty-five online and print journals. Born in Brooklyn and raised in Miami, she attended the University of Michigan. Marlene presently lives in Coconut Grove, Florida with her husband. She has two children and two grandchildren. She recently compiled a collection of her stories and finished her first novel. Her Twitter handle is @writestuffmiami

For more work by Marlene Olin, check out her page at our Online Sundries site.