It was in fifth grade, when my uncle realized his room was far too neat for a boy, as though the definition of gender can be based on the color of his bedroom wall, or the number of boyband posters stuck under his bed. He ripped those posters one night after he went to a grocery store, his face redder than the apple he was holding. His eyes looked like half-eaten sandwiches for having mustard tears and ketchup spit all over the kitchen floor. All because he looked at a boy for five seconds, and now he can’t even look at himself without feeling like a set of old rusted keys for an abandoned house. When my grandfather saw him that night, he hugged him the way morning fog seeps through your skin, leaving you warm enough and not as cold. His hands were wrinkled from holding small handles of tea cups during Sundays just to make my uncle feel like a lady bug, or a sailing ship with an anchor that can handle a whirlpool of words from anybody who throws hate mails and empty bottles of spray paint. My uncle asked him that night if it’s okay for men to cry, because he wasnt sure anymore. It took my uncle two seconds to hear him say it’s alright, and three more, to realize that my grandfather was already crying, way before he started doing so. - Kharla M. Brillo | My grandfather always wanted a son, never mind if he doesnt play ball
Posted on: Sat, 15 Nov 2014 19:14:27 +0000
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