Heavy

by Kiese Laymon

“I know you do.” Grandmama stopped laughing. “I don’t much appreciate them or they clothes either, but cleaning them nasty clothes is how we eat, and how I got your mama and them through school. You know I been washing them folks’ clothes for years and I ain’t never seen one washcloth?” “What you mean, Grandmama?” “I mean what I said. Them folk don’t use no washcloths.” I waited for a blink, a smirk, a slow roll of her eyes. I got nothing. “And the one time the little po’ one who was messing with you asked me how to use a washrag, I told that baby, ‘if you bring that washrag from your ass to your face, that’s between you and your God.’ And this baby just stood there laughing like I’m telling jokes. You know I was serious as a heart attack, Kie.”

The truth was that practicing writing meant practicing sitting down, sitting still, and my body did not ever want to be still. When it had to be still, all it wanted to do was imagine dunking with two hands or kissing a girl who loved me. Sitting still, just as much as any other part of writing, took practice. Most days, my body did not want to practice, but I convinced it that sitting still and writing were a path to memory.