I’m sitting here staring at my grandma’s rug wondering…
Wondering how it lies perfectly flat, considering all the dirt that’s been swept underneath.
Generations of family secrets take home underneath her burgundy and brown rug– singed with the ashes from her cast iron stove.
No one ever told us “young folks” the story of Aunt Jo’s illegitimate baby or how uncle Bo was a little “funny” and his friend Carl were really a couple.
We had to hear it passing when the grown folks were talking.
Sometimes we would get caught and catch a beating of a life time ‘cause we weren’t tending to our business.
But it was my business.
This is my family.
It’s funny how this inanimate object holds more knowledge of my family history than I do.
I’m a bit jealous.
Being the curious one out of my siblings, I used to ask my grandmother about her childhood, she always said “baby you don’t want to hear all that. Go out and play.”
Everyone’s past was shoved underneath this rug.
Maybe if grandma told us that she was raped we would know why Aunt Sue didn’t look like the rest of us.
Or if granddaddy spoke on how he was beaten out his sleep as a child, we would understand why he doesn’t like sleeping in the dark.
I heard my distant cousins killed a white man when they were twelve…they had to escape up north from being killed themselves.
That explains why Aunt Anne never had any children with her when she came to grandma’s for holidays. Her boys were up in Chicago somewhere.
I wonder if we knew these stories how many problems wouldn’t exist.
I wonder if I lift this here rug back and let all the secrets fly, would the truth set us free?