See, one of these is poison, and one brings cursing luck.

Take one in your spout feathers, the other run amok.

One said to cause the scurvy.

But one might make me rich.

The trouble that I'm facing is, I'm not sure which is witch.

You've crossed over this boot.

Stay tuned.

Okay. Spout. Stay tuned. The My grandmother had bad knees, which may be the only reason I survived childhood. Always a close thing.

We have a routine, the pattern.

First, she catching me doing the bad stuff.

Lighting her Bible on fire with a magnifying glass,

dumping her syrup on the ground to watch the ants,

forgetting that I locked my little brother in the attic. Next, she narrows her eyes.

She surveys a catastrophe. Then, like in a western, she snatches up something to beat me with,

a spatula, extension cord, whatever's handy, gets to swinging. I run lickety split from the rain of flows.

And if I'm lucky, very, very lucky, I sprint, leap, dive, tuck, roll,

straight underneath the dining room table safe.

Just in time.

And as granny rages, there I sit. Boy, come out for me to there.

Uh-uh.

Her bad knees won't let her bend down and snatch me up.

Boy, you hear me?

...