Lucky me, my first whiff of death came late, at twenty-five, me leading lipsticked Grandma Lorena by the elbow on west Galveston Island, guiding her through the crowd toward the outdoor musical seats—“South Pacific”— while she clutched my upper arm with one hand, balancing her strawberry red wig on her head with another, her body smelling of leaked urine, Coty face powder, and Jungle Gardenia, our bellies full of Landry’s fried fish and whiskey old fashioneds with maraschino cherries, followed by key lime pie, our clothes sparkly, moods high, since we knew all the flirty lyrics and we hummed our way through the acts standing clapping then finally shuffling toward the car, her death-gripping my arm because her mother-in-law Betty fell years ago and, “Well, that was the end of Betty,” me driving us—my upper arm, sore—home along the Seawall beneath a giant crescent moon, yellow tip pointed like a fishhook that could pierce our mouths, catch us, dangle us, and drop us, splash, over the Gulf while Grandma, the old bargirl once famous for men’s hats and bare legs, riding shotgun and looking tiny, rotting fruit from body cavities flavoring the air, her voice gravelly from chain smoking, her face turned toward the waves, told me again, how she used to work at The Chinese Duck during Prohibition, “Right at the end of that pier, was a long building with a hinged floor at the back, so when a cop came in, we could spread the news mouth to mouth all the way back, to lift the floor and hide the booze,” and she asked me again, “Did you ever make love in the ocean, Honey?” and I didn’t answer, then she said, softer, “I want you to know, I don’t recall a finer evening in my entire life,” and me feeling sad sadness like humidity, driving my rusty Toyota through the moonlit night with my cargo, the wild sea sloshing nearby, for the very last time.
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Nicole Brogdon is an Austin, TX, trauma therapist interested in strugglers and stories, with fiction in Vestal Review, Flash Frontier, Bending Genres, Bright Flash, SoFloPoJo, Cafe Irreal, 101Words, Centifictionist, Cleaver, and more. A 2024 Best Microfiction, and Smokelong Microfiction Finalist, Nicole is on Twitter @NBrogdonWrites!.