The Gourd

I knew what happened to the gourd, but you couldn’t pay me enough money to tell my grandmother what happened.  Even if she didn’t agree, I knew my life would be over.  I don’t know what it was about my grandmother and her gourds, but the one I had just broken was her favorite. 

I wanted to move out – had – wanted to for a while – but maybe this was the perfect time.  She was obsessed with the gourds and would not stop until she found out when and how it had broken.  She would probably kick me out anyway if I didn’t help her to investigate. 

I heard her stomping around above me and I knew she was awake from her nap.  I edged toward the front door so I could make a quick exit if she started yelling.  I had to get out.  And fast.  My grandma may be 72, but she could still move.  As she came down the stairs, I tried to gauge her mood. 

If she got any kind of nap, she might be in a generous mood, otherwise I was in a huge spot.  The closer she came, I tried to get a read on how she was doing, but she wasn’t letting any feeling show.  In the end, I don’t know what surprised me more, her smile or the fact she collapsed at the bottom of the stairs. 


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