grassroots, oranges, and rum cake honey
it’s good for twenty years, you know, and i’m lookin’ for the truth in it. granddaddy’s truck rumbling straight back into 1950 while we look for the word between the seat cushions. it’s a trap, honey, or don’t you know that?
god’s got grand big ol’ plans for you and you don’t get no say in it. grandmomma’s rum cake was just meant to help the medicine go down easy but, baby, you’ve still got to take it. the train tracks, the porcelain doll, the fine china, the lace hats.
honey, listen – everybody’s a little damaged ‘round here. it’s south florida after all, and the humidity rusts up even the best of intentions. it’s the radio playing from the backroom and the uncles cussing over checkers. the tv’s playing football and somebody’s auntie is hollerin’.
its legacy, honey. it’s all about where you came from. it’s all about where you’re going. ain’t no ghosts in this house anymore – grandmomma kicked them all out back in ‘08. made ‘em sleep in the boat out front, but they still sit at the windows. mouths waterin’, thinking back to when they still got a slice of the cake.
no, ain’t nobody makin’ sweets in the hereafter, honey, so all they got is the memory. one night years ago i heard ‘em whisper that they was gonna haunt granddaddy’s truck – i think maybe i can still hear ‘em whisperin’.
