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 From Jason R.
by Mark Jude Poirier
I was seven when I was sent to stay with my grandparents in Waltham for the summer. My parents remained at home, two hours down the Mass Pike, in Lee. My mother had told me that she and my father needed to do a lot of talking. Even as a second grader, I knew that meant fighting, and I was happy to escape.
On first seeing me, my grandfather said, "What the hell is your mother feeding you?" Then he hitched up his worn dungarees and resettled in front of the Red Sox game he had been watching. "Kid looks like a goddamned keg with arms and legs," he mumbled to no one.
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