From a Southern Vantage Point

When I went to Nana’s house in Atlanta, I stumbled into the room on wobbly toddler legs and collapsed on the soft, deep carpet, my throat stinging, my clothes wet, still stinking of vomit rinsed from my body in the airport sink. I hid my face, inhaling the comforting musty scent, focusing on the incessant rhythmic clicks of my Pop-pop’s oxygen tank, as my mother complained about my condition. Nana squawked her advice before gently lifting me up from the floor. “You give your mommy so much trouble on these plane trips,” she scolded as she hoisted me onto a kitchen stool, and fed me sweet chunks of candied ginger to tame my upset stomach. My mother leaned over to whisper in her ear. Nana shook her head. Lines formed between her eyebrows, but disappeared almost as quickly, as she grinned at me, asking if I’d like scrambled eggs for dinner.

When I went to Nana’s house, I lived in a realm of imagination and adventure. The townhouse stretched until it contained the universe; couches and coffee tables became jungles, cities, and the deep sea. Woven coasters were cookies at my royal tea parties. Hand-knit sweaters and scarves came on and off in endless games of make believe, until the room was littered. I chatted with Otto, the bulldog, who didn’t flinch when I stuck my chubby finger up his wet nostril. My two best friends were Oobalunk and Zilalah, Martians I met under the table.

When I went to Nana’s house, I took mandatory bubble-blowing lessons with her on the rickety back porch. I would grip the bubble wand and blow furiously into the hole, but the dripping liquid would fail to join Nana’s glistening orbs floating away into space. I stomped my foot in frustration and refused to participate, running down to play in the leaf-piles that consumed the tiny lawn in fall. Later, I hid my face in a teddy bear, enduring torture as tweezer-wielding Nana picked the splinters from the porch out of my feet.

When I went to Nana’s house, several times a day, I would be instructed to sit in front of the TV while my Nana conducted her furtive “breathing” on the porch. I would sneak to the window and watch her as she raised the white stick to her lips, fascinated by the delicate wisps that would escape from her mouth and nose, as if her breath had become smoke like a dragon’s. One day, I saw a single tear trace the lines in her cheek before she wiped it away. I glanced away. I knew I shouldn’t have been watching her. Crawling away from the window, squeezing under the glass coffee table, I talked things over with my Martian friends. Oobalunk and Zilalah promised that soon I could go to Mars with them and play with them every day.

When I went to Nana’s house, I would peer through the kitchen doorway and watch as Pop-pop winced and snapped at my Nana when she poured liquid from a medicine bottle into the deep red hole in the skin covering his balding head that he usually concealed with a one of her hand-knit beanies. They told me it was medicine for his melon-oma. I imagined the cold potion dripping through the tubes of his brain, and wondered if that was what colored his milky eyes.

Then, one hot summer night, wailing sounds pierced my dreams. Sitting up from my stiff little mattress on the floor in the spare bedroom, I clutched my stuffed kitty cat and listened. I heard excited voices, pounding footsteps, and the dog Otto’s alarmed barks. Out of the window, colorful lights swirled around and reflected off of the window glass. Suddenly, a flash of realization overtook me: my Martians had come to take me on that promised playdate.

Swiftly, I scampered down the stairs and squeezed my pink sneakers onto my bare feet. As I pressed down the Velcro straps, I peeked into the kitchen at Nana, whose voice shook as she talked to someone on the phone. I scrambled out the open door, hoping to escape before Nana noticed. The shiny vehicle, white and red, was spilling with activity. The back was wide open. I felt Nana’s hand on my shoulder, her sharp fingernails digging in and turning me around. I tried to wriggle away. I cried that my Martians had come for me.

She paused for a moment, then gave me a sad smile. “You’re right, honey. Your Martians are visiting. That’s all. No need to be worried.” Excited to hear this confirmation, I sprang from her grip and again ran towards the space ship. There, lying motionless and ensnared in a mess of beeping machines, tubes, and commotion, was my Pop-pop. I turned towards Nana in tears. I said, “But the Martians came for me!” She picked me up and turned away so that I could no longer see inside the spaceship. “It’s not your turn,” she said.

When I went to Nana’s house, a golden woman smiled over me from her frame on the wall during my hours of play. A cuckoo clock chirped every hour…or more if I begged Nana to rewind him. Mine was a life of Sesame Street tapes, pretend space voyages, and scrambled eggs with ketchup. Blissful ignorance, beautiful simplicity.