Bullet Shells

The cacophony of sounds explodes around me like the shells my grandfather must have heard in Korea, except these noise are pleasant, vibrant expressions my mother, grandmother, and her husband are exuding They fight to talk over each other and their presences are just as loud as We sit at the oak dining room table Across from me is my mother, She, 5’2, overweight, and a hippie at heart, hobbles around our house to bring plates of meatloaf and sweet cobs of corn to our hungry hearts. The weight is too much for her knees, and they force her to sit in an uncomfortable plastic school chair when she performs with her community choir. The plastic red handicapped sign helps her at least, when she needs to pick up a dozen eggs or change the lives of children at her middle school. I desperately want her to see herself as beautiful. I desperately want her to be healthy. To my right my grandmother, Meema, and her husband act more like one person than a couple, Often yelling over each other and trying to stomp around as quietly as possible around the house when my mother takes one of her naps around noon, only, of course, when they aren’t sleeping, too. I never met my grandfather, Clyde. Here’s what I think I know: He was a funny, kind hearted man. He fought in Korea. He was a bartender and was surrounded by friends in his youth. My mother was his favorite. He shot himself in the head when she was only 18. He had arthritis. He was depressed. His legs hurt when he stood while he worked. He hurt. The cacophony explodes around me like the shell my grandfather must have heard in the garage of his house where his three children (two boys and my mother) and his wife had created peace But now the cacophony is different, it is bright against the darkness of my grandfather and mother. I can see my mother, now. She is smiling at her adversities, She is taking off the shadow of her father like a loose, black wool military dress She is winning her war