The Day Nana Buried Any Remaining Illusions About My Mother | Margo Griffin

"Nana, look!" I yell.

"Whatcha got yourself up to now, little girl?" Nana asks from the kitchen window.

"I dunno," I say, "but it's hurt."

"Girl, don't you be picking up dirty, dying animals out there or you will surely die of some horrible disease!" 

I look down at the tiny creature in my hands, immediately dropping it onto the ground in a panic. The animal is whimpering and gasping for air. I can't stop watching and feeling the urge to do something— anything. But what? 

"Nana, can you come out here and help?"

"I am working dinner right now, Charlene." 

"Please, Nana. He looks hurt." 

"Dear Lord! Just gimme a minute, Char." 

A few minutes later, Nana comes trudging down the steps, wiping her hands on the sides of her housecoat. "What's all the fuss?" she asks.

I point at the helpless critter on the ground, curled up on its side like a Cheeto, except it's not orange; it's some sort of combination of pink and purple. With her hands on her hips, Nana tilts her head in various angles, studying the animal, and finally says, "Char, what we got here is an abandoned baby; a mole."

"But where's its Mama?" I ask, feeling the big salty tears in the corners of my eyes.

"I dunno, Charlene," she says flatly.

"Did his Mama not love him?" I ask seriously.

Immediately, Nana puts her arm around my shoulders and says, "Maybe his Mama was eaten up by this big old bad world. Or maybe, Charlene, the Mama knew her baby wasn't long for this earth and left him here to die where we would find him and give him a proper burial. And that's just what we're gonna do. Go get Nana a shovel from the shed."

I do as she says, and my stomach is flip-flopping as I amble back toward my Nana. Nana grabs the shovel from me and starts digging a hole under our yard's enormous red maple tree.

"You all right there, Char?" Nana asks, looking up at me.

"I dunno, Nana," I whisper.

"All things die, Charlene."

"I know, Nana. It's not that."

"Tell Nana; What's got your mind all twisted up into knots?"

I look down at my feet and feel the tears begin their escape, finally understanding that my Mama wasn't kidnapped by an overseas Prince as I was told time and again in Nana's stories ever since I was a baby. Then, I look up at my Nana, staring her straight in the eyes, and ask, "Did my Mama get eaten up by the world and leave me here to die?"

Margo had several pleasant illusions destroyed through the years, but she still carries on with a smile. She has worked in urban education for over thirty years and is the mother of two amazing daughters and to the love of her life and best rescue dog ever, Harley. Margo's words appear or will appear in Bright Flash Literary Review, Drunk Monkeys, Roi Fainéant Press, Ayaskala, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, and others.