Michelle

My grandmother, Lil, was always a phenomenal story teller. She was also a phenomenal cook. She happened to offer both of these gifts simultaneously, and very well. I talked to her nearly every day of nearly all my life, and it was at her side that I learned the recipe for chicken and dumplings, and the value of painting pictures with words. It was in her kitchen that I learned the stories of her childhood, and in doing so, learned the story of a lifetime.

She told me once, over a pan that would become baked beans, of a story connected to her Uncle Pearl, a man she often described as �no good, neither walking nor riding.� I was intrigued, the way young women often are in stories of unrequited love, and bad boys with tender hearts, and we talked about the story for weeks. Along the way of getting to the heart of the matter, I learned about culture, and longing. I learned of oppression being a state of mind, and I learned the hard fact, according to Grandma Lil, that �the heart wants what it wants. No matter what it costs.�

And while both of us snubbed our noses at love stories, in the traditional sense, we discovered that our stories became the beginnings of a novel. We had a story that was about a love between a man and a woman, but more importantly, our story remains about the love that grows for oneself, within oneself, as we come to terms with who we are and what is important to us.

My little book belongs to her, but has never been published. It is my goal to earn a trade publishing contract for the piece, and maybe tell some more stories along the way.