I JUST WANT MY GRANDMOTHER to shut up. She keeps talking about how certain she is.

"If you work hard, good things will happen," she says.

"True love lasts forever."

"Everything will be fine."

She says, "Cut your hair, you look like a bum."

"Grow your hair out, you look like a criminal." That's what she said when I had a buzz cut.

She's old. She's wise. She continues. We listen.

"When I was young," she pauses for dramatic effect, "America was really something."

She looks at the television and shakes her head—Shakira is gyrating her magical hips.

"Women should not degrade and objectify themselves that way," she says.

"The youth is decaying."

"We need morals taught in schools."

She looks at me and preaches.

"Son, you need to put that business degree to use."

"You need to make money and accumulate all the assets you can."

"You need to be successful."

Shit, the "P" word is next, it's coming, I can sense it. She's going for the knockout, the haymaker, the jugular, the whole enchilada.

"You need to P-R-O-S-P-E-R ."

She points her index finger at me and says, "Prosperity is the key."

"Why?" I ask. I look at Shakira. She's singing that song, you know the one—it's in Spanish but you still sing along like an idiot—yep, you're humming it right now.

"So you can be remembered," she says. "If you prosper, you will be remembered."

"I see ... I see."

She nods and smiles. She's very happy. She thinks I'm on my way to becoming the next Donald Trump.

"You're right," I say. I've always been told to agree with my elders. If you say something contradictory they might have a heart attack or some type of embolism.

She stands up and walks to the door. Her decaying body (by decaying, I mean actually decaying—her hair falls out and finds a way into whatever meal I happen to be eating at the time) moves slower than molasses and the stiffness of her bones reminds me of the dead frog I spotted on the side of the road a few hours ago.

She was prosperous.

She accumulated tons of assets.

She was respected.

She was rich.

Was. Was. Was.

"Goodbye," she yells. "Apply for that job tomorrow."

I nod.

We go back inside and sit down. Shakira is dancing and singing in that quasi-English language of hers. Nobody remembers a word my grandmother said.


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