Boys Like You

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My gram told me once when I was eleven that I could do anything. She’d been very matter of fact as she poured us each an iced tea on a steamy afternoon.

It was the kind of afternoon when the air sizzled and stuck to the insides of your clothes. The kind of afternoon that made your skin clammy and your muscles lazy. I remember that the birds were quiet but the locusts chimed like mini buzz saws.

Funny, the things that you remember, and the things that you can’t forget no matter how hard you try.

On that particular afternoon, we’d sat on her front porch in the rain, Gram’s hyacinths bent over from the weight of the water, her two cats Mimi and Roger curled at our feet. I’m sure I wore some trendy New York outfit that was totally inappropriate for Louisiana in August, and Gram Blackwell was dressed in what she liked to call “genteel southern attire,” which basically meant cotton instead of linen or silk.

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