R.K. West
Granddad lives with us because Mom worries about what would happen if he had another stroke. She put a TV in his room so he could yell at the news with the door closed. Sometimes I stop by his room after school, when he is playing music from his old vinyl record collection on a turntable player he keeps on the bureau. When I told him we were studying the Vietnam War in history class, he took a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “Well, fuck me,” he said. Then: “Sorry, kid, language, but Jesus Christ, couldn’t they at least wait until we’re all dead?”
Credit: This first appeared at Six Sentences.
R.K. West's work has appeared at Johnny America, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Surely, and others.
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