Means and Opportunity

"Speak plain," she says with a point at the chair next to her. I nod and sit.

"They sent me to ask."

"I know."

"Well?"

"Well, what? I ain't got all day."

"You know why I'm here."

"Don't mean you're off the hook. Say yer piece."

She's near blind and as old as the sea pines that sway next to her porch. I can hear waves crash just out of sight. The gray boards of her old shack hang on to flecks of white paint. There's a glass of sweet tea that sweats in her hand.

I pause, watch the beads, catch my breath.

She waits, and a grin tugs at lips that have not known teeth since Bill lied and a girl kept her dress.

Her skin was once dark as the night, but it is a deep shade of gray now. She's sick, old, and rough.

I hate what must be done.

"Go on, boy. You know my pa built this place when beach life was hard. Not one white man would live here back then. We ain't had no lights. No john. Just that shit shack, there." She points to a place that used to be, but was now just sea grass. "Tell me what your ma is too 'fraid to say."

"It's time to sell, Great Nan. Live with us."

"How much them men say this time?"

"More than we can spend."

"No. Here is mine. Here is where I will live. Home is where I will die."

I sigh.

She takes her last sip of sweet tea as I reach in my bag.

I watch the sweat drip from the glass and land on the floor as I stand and walk to her chair.

She looks up at me, and I swear I see a smirk as the clear bag wraps her head.

It's more than we can spend, but I will do my best.