178 The Meadow Checkers with Grandpa Annie Brown The sun filtered through the window of a 1970s single wide trailer. Brown paneling encased the walls tried to bring in the warmth of wood to the dim living room. At six, I sat across from grandpa. A checkerboard, placed on a plastic tv tray a cracked floral pattern peeked out beneath the board. Cigarette haze lingered in the room. As we played this game, the chatter from mom and grandma drifted in from the sunny kitchen. His shaky hands rattled the pieces around the board. I accidently brushed against his calf. He leaned in close, You can go higher In a hushed voice. His black eyes gleamed in hope. He twisted a smile. I shrank, knowing of his nakedness beneath that worn white robe. The stinging metallic taste raised to my throat. I looked at grandma’s shelves full of blown glass paper weights. The clear smooth orbs with a firework of colors inside, shiny and clean.
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