Annie Lander Poet Narrative

Remembering my Grandparents

A good man is hard to find, just as my Nana always said. That day, I witnessed tears in her eyes as she firmly stuffed the monthly tithe into the envelope and headed to church that Sunday morning. Earlier, she had been rightfully screaming at my granddad for hours. She was furious with the old fool, and for good reason. It was the same day I uncovered the shocking truth: my beloved grandpa was having an affair with the widower Estelline Beckley.

“Ellie, you’re the only woman for me,” my granddad claimed. But my Nana wasn’t having any of that nonsense—she slammed the door in his face. I remember feeling scared and confused by this family feud, so I took refuge under the table and prayed for the chaos to end.

For weeks on end, my Nana devoted herself to prayer while my granddad busied himself destroying her pots and pans, boiling water and brewing coffee. She would tell the neighbors that those shameless harlots, with their enticing figures, could cause a man to scale mountains without proper gear. That statement continues to perplex me to this day.

Years later, I encountered my mother’s half-sister, the spitting image of my mother, yet she embodied my granddad’s spirit and expression. So much for eavesdropping and the complexities of family affairs.

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