Sometimes, Mawmaw’s way of speaking says it best.
I hear her say things, and they feel right.
They spill from out my mouth, like I’m pouring them from one of her huge canning jars. It ropes down the side of the glass and onto the countertop.
Mawmaw’s eyebrows jump as she watches the whole thing and smirks, but she doesn’t move much. She knew that was going to happen.
Sometimes, she’d pour them out herself.
The mess made would be hers, and she couldn’t quit it fast enough.
She’d throw her hands up after placing the jar back on its bottom. Turn it loose with a huff. She’d need to separate herself from the mess she was creating, and her hands would fly to Jesus… She didn’t know that was going to happen.
She could always clean-up, though, she’d say. No matter how big the mess. And she did.