One time they were fighting about God-knows-what and she loaded the shotgun, walked him out into the front yard, pulled the trigger, and peppered his back with bird shot. Dez might’ve been as close to wicked as I’ve ever known in this world, but for reasons that escaped most folks, my grandfather always found his way back to her. When I was growing up, my grandfather was married to a crazy-haired woman named Dez who named all her daughters after flowers - Rose, Lily, Daisy, a whole garden of kids. The fact of the matter was there was more to that look than just words. For lack of a better way of putting it, the old man had a look like he could strangle the life out of you. His veins rose from his arms like tree roots, tattoos aged almost green in his skin. He wore a pair of Dickies dirtied at the knees. Hair slicked back, his eyes were the same pale blue color of his work shirts. My grandfather, or what was left of him, was worn down and wiry. Gravel crunched under tires as we eased along a dirt road just a few minutes from where we lived to the trailer where my grandfather survived. Past yellow fields of oat grass that waved and flickered in sunlight like heads of windblown hair. We drove there on birthdays and holidays.
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