The Whispers of Granny's Ghost

A short memoir about family, land, and the time I pooped my pants.

Cloud over the pasture. A Nocturn.

I’ve been re-reading Andre Dubus’ Meditations from a Movable Chair, and his observational way of storytelling has crawled under my skin. (I’ve read this book no less than three times and it’s better every time.) I wondered what truth I could unearth by telling this very short story, the story of the time I soiled my pants when I was a child. This is my first attempt. Enjoy.

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I was in the woods behind the barn when the cold sweats hit. My guts churned. Crows circled. The hard earth whispered, “Run.”

I covered ground, bounded over rocks and roots and creek bed, made it to the cow fence. This, the last barrier between the wild wilderness and my granny’s bathroom. Up to the middle rail, to the top rail, and just as I was about to jump, my left foot caught on the top, and I spilled forward. When my cheek struck the ground, everything went slack. My arms. My legs. First, there was a cold ringing in my ears. Then—and there is no polite way to say what happened next