Hybrid Literature
"Prophecy"
By Yvette Green
By Yvette Green
Anger had taken up residence in her memory
At first, I would shrug off my grandmother’s words as her own misery,
her schizophrenia,
her winter season.
But today, on the promise of my personal new year:
My grandmother called to say, “Happy Birthday,”
Through the phone, I could see her
smirk behind large bifocals
pressed against grey eyes,
propped on ears that had grown both wide and long with her years.
She watched as I aged.
On this birthday, my new season spoke age to me: 35.
The hardness of the odd numbers
sat firmly against one another.
Advanced maternal age
and menopause
surreptitiously stood in her shadows.
Today, she bequeathed anxiety and unresolved pain to me.
I, too, had been abandoned,
unworthy of even
the chance to become a bare tree that
still stood straight and reached to the heavens.
Today, her words took up residence in my heart
She reached through my flesh and
pushed her fist past tender muscles,
punctured blood vessels,
severed arteries until her tired fingers attacked my bones--
She made my rib cage her harp to accompany her refrain:
“you won’t have another child,
because he left you.
You’re just like me,
I ain’t got no husband and you don’t either.”
Birthday text messages from those who preferred not to talk but wanted to do more than the obligatory Facebook wall post poured in immediately on the first day of autumn. I’m usually hypnotized by the changing of the guards. The trees slowly, almost imperceptibly drain the summer green from their leaves and proudly adorn themselves in robust rusts, butternut squashes and brilliant magentas meet moody maroons. Each birthday, as I entered my own new year, I wrapped my arms around the newness of the season.
Except 35.
An early happy birthday text message was rudely met with, “35 can go hide under a rock!” I had greeted my birthday sourly and my friend momentarily caused me to reevaluate my perspective.
“Enjoy every moment because 45 will be here soon,” she cautioned. I failed to apologize for being so ungrateful but offered sincere appreciation for her wisdom.
Soon after, my 84-year-old grandmother called and quickly put herself at the center of the conversation, “I want you [to come see me], you ain’t got no husband.” Hence, I was supposed to jump and go visit her because no man was tethering me to him. She was asking me to come to my aunt’s house for a joint birthday celebration with my aunt who was fourteen years my senior to the day. I declined, not wanting to spend an hour or more each way driving up and down Interstate 95 between Maryland and Virginia. Not wanting to mask my feelings about being husbandless on this day. Not really wanting to do the family thing, wanting to do me. Even if that meant doing nothing with my boys.
Shortly thereafter, she had removed herself from the center of the conversation and traversed across the span of her 15 grandchildren’s lives and landed on my brother and his girlfriend. Trying to be a contributor to this conversation, I added, “yea we might have another wedding soon. You know we’ve got a baby coming.” (My cousin and his wife were expecting in October). But still thinking of my brother, she said, “yea they could have a baby. You can’t. Your husband left you.”
Usually when she sings her sad refrain of “you ain’t got no husband,” I’m unmoved by the melody. When she learned of my ex’s departure, she proclaimed her awareness of the ill-fitting match: “when ya’ll told me he liked to cook, I knew something was wrong. Caught him back.” She fits this vocal tic into the conversation; it signals that anger remains a part of her memory. Months after her reminder of my failings, she shared, “now you’re just like me. I ain’t got no husband and neither do you.”
“I can tell you this, it hurt me that he [my grandfather] went out on me…” she relayed.
I knew what she meant. I understood being hurt. But I straightened my shoulders and asserted: that pain was hers, not mine. I wasn’t going to hold onto that hurt. I would choose differently.
This specific year, however, autumn had failed in its sleight of hand. It had always seemed majestic. Yet, this new season spoke age to me. My grandmother’s harsh spirit was reflected in her words. I grew ever fearful of my fate. I was afraid the trees would remain the same for me and my life would mirror hers.
Today, those words were not hers, but mine. I was not just alone, but abandoned, not good enough to be loved. 35 was turning a corner and the likelihood of another marriage and another child were becoming further out of sight. Her unending pain was becoming a generational curse.
At first, I would shrug off my grandmother’s words as her own misery,
her schizophrenia,
her winter season.
But today, on the promise of my personal new year:
My grandmother called to say, “Happy Birthday,”
Through the phone, I could see her
smirk behind large bifocals
pressed against grey eyes,
propped on ears that had grown both wide and long with her years.
She watched as I aged.
On this birthday, my new season spoke age to me: 35.
The hardness of the odd numbers
sat firmly against one another.
Advanced maternal age
and menopause
surreptitiously stood in her shadows.
Today, she bequeathed anxiety and unresolved pain to me.
I, too, had been abandoned,
unworthy of even
the chance to become a bare tree that
still stood straight and reached to the heavens.
Today, her words took up residence in my heart
She reached through my flesh and
pushed her fist past tender muscles,
punctured blood vessels,
severed arteries until her tired fingers attacked my bones--
She made my rib cage her harp to accompany her refrain:
“you won’t have another child,
because he left you.
You’re just like me,
I ain’t got no husband and you don’t either.”
Birthday text messages from those who preferred not to talk but wanted to do more than the obligatory Facebook wall post poured in immediately on the first day of autumn. I’m usually hypnotized by the changing of the guards. The trees slowly, almost imperceptibly drain the summer green from their leaves and proudly adorn themselves in robust rusts, butternut squashes and brilliant magentas meet moody maroons. Each birthday, as I entered my own new year, I wrapped my arms around the newness of the season.
Except 35.
An early happy birthday text message was rudely met with, “35 can go hide under a rock!” I had greeted my birthday sourly and my friend momentarily caused me to reevaluate my perspective.
“Enjoy every moment because 45 will be here soon,” she cautioned. I failed to apologize for being so ungrateful but offered sincere appreciation for her wisdom.
Soon after, my 84-year-old grandmother called and quickly put herself at the center of the conversation, “I want you [to come see me], you ain’t got no husband.” Hence, I was supposed to jump and go visit her because no man was tethering me to him. She was asking me to come to my aunt’s house for a joint birthday celebration with my aunt who was fourteen years my senior to the day. I declined, not wanting to spend an hour or more each way driving up and down Interstate 95 between Maryland and Virginia. Not wanting to mask my feelings about being husbandless on this day. Not really wanting to do the family thing, wanting to do me. Even if that meant doing nothing with my boys.
Shortly thereafter, she had removed herself from the center of the conversation and traversed across the span of her 15 grandchildren’s lives and landed on my brother and his girlfriend. Trying to be a contributor to this conversation, I added, “yea we might have another wedding soon. You know we’ve got a baby coming.” (My cousin and his wife were expecting in October). But still thinking of my brother, she said, “yea they could have a baby. You can’t. Your husband left you.”
Usually when she sings her sad refrain of “you ain’t got no husband,” I’m unmoved by the melody. When she learned of my ex’s departure, she proclaimed her awareness of the ill-fitting match: “when ya’ll told me he liked to cook, I knew something was wrong. Caught him back.” She fits this vocal tic into the conversation; it signals that anger remains a part of her memory. Months after her reminder of my failings, she shared, “now you’re just like me. I ain’t got no husband and neither do you.”
“I can tell you this, it hurt me that he [my grandfather] went out on me…” she relayed.
I knew what she meant. I understood being hurt. But I straightened my shoulders and asserted: that pain was hers, not mine. I wasn’t going to hold onto that hurt. I would choose differently.
This specific year, however, autumn had failed in its sleight of hand. It had always seemed majestic. Yet, this new season spoke age to me. My grandmother’s harsh spirit was reflected in her words. I grew ever fearful of my fate. I was afraid the trees would remain the same for me and my life would mirror hers.
Today, those words were not hers, but mine. I was not just alone, but abandoned, not good enough to be loved. 35 was turning a corner and the likelihood of another marriage and another child were becoming further out of sight. Her unending pain was becoming a generational curse.
