My Life In Word

For Susan

Sue stands at her kitchen counter,
cutting a piece of cheddar
from the block she keeps there—
not cold from the refrigerator,
but soft beneath the knife,
warm enough to release
its sharp, familiar scent.

She lifts it to her mouth,
and before she can finish chewing,
the kitchen fades.
She is a little girl again
in the early seventies,
standing beside Mydaddy
on the front porch
of his old Cracker-style wooden house,
where the floorboards complain
beneath every footstep
and summer settles over everything
like a hand that will not lift.

Mydaddy sits in a wooden chair,
his back resting into years,
his shirt dampened at the collar,
the day humming around him
with cicadas and heat.

Sue stands close beside him,
two cornrows braided
around the sides of her head,
her golden light-brown cheeks
reddened by the summer sun.

In his shirt pocket,
he always carries
a block of cheddar cheese,
wrapped in wax paper
and softened by the warmth
of his body.

A pocketknife rests
in his pants pocket,
but he does not reach for it.

He unwraps the cheese
He peels back the wax
and pinches off a piece
with his fingers.

No plate.
No napkin.
No ceremony.

Just cheese—
warm, soft, a little greasy—
pressed into her waiting hand.

Then he pinches off another
for himself.

Perhaps that cheese sustained him,
carried close to his heart
through long afternoons,
through labor and hunger,
through all the things
a man did not speak of
to the children who loved him.

Perhaps each small piece
was his way of saying,
Here, baby. Take some.
There is enough for you, too.

On the porch,
Sue eats beside Mydaddy,
the cheddar melting
against her tongue,
the red wax curled
in his broad palm,
the sun burning gold
across the yard.

She does not know yet
that memory chooses
the smallest things to keep—
a wooden chair,
two braids,
a weathered hand,
a pocket warmed block of cheese.

Back in her kitchen,
Sue opens her eyes.

The years have carried away
the porch,
the house,
the chair,
and Mydaddy’s hands.

But the cheese remains.

Soft on the counter.
Warm in her mouth.
Good as it ever was.

And for one quiet moment,
Mydaddy is beside her again,
pinching off a piece
and placing it in her hand.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Unknown Family Member of MyDaddy, Auntie Pearline, and Grandma, August 1975, Ashville, FL

Looking at this picture now, my first thought is: I wonder if there is a piece of cheese wrapped in parchment paper in one of those pockets. The other pocket definitely holds some tah’bacca.

I have become overcome by a swell of emotions and tears have welled and fallen. As I look into his eyes, I wonder about all the things those eyes witnessed but never spoke of—all the history, hardship, love, and loss he carried silently within him, as he was not a man of many words. 

My granddaddy's name was Dave Brinson. He was born on January 1, 1894, and died on November 22, 1989, at the age of ninety-five. He would have been eighty-one years old when this photograph was taken.

He was the love of my life. 

He was my sun and I his moon. 

Unlike Sue, I called him Granddaddy because I am a generation behind her. The only grand-children that call him Granddaddy are myself, my cousin Gwen and my brother Sam, who grew up alongside the great-grand-childen. His children and most of my older cousins called him “Mydaddy.” I have always wondered who started that moniker. It was probably one of my aunties—a small child’s attempt to claim him that somehow became his name for generations. But I understand the instinct to claim him. Even now, when I am talking with other family members, I sometimes say “my granddaddy,” as though he belongs only to me. I remember having a conversation with my cousin Niece and saying something about “My granddaddy....”

She quickly replied, “Who you talkin’ ’bout—my granddaddy?”

“No,” I answered, just as seriously. “I’m talkin’ ’bout my granddaddy!”

Then we both fell out laughing. Oh, the possessiveness of the many over one man. We all claimed him as our own, and that alone tells you how deeply he was loved.

My grandma's name was Siller Sillars Brinson. She was on born in October 16, 1902 and died on June 19, 1976, at the age of seventy-three. I do not remember much about her because I was only six years old when she died. The only clear memory I have of her is the sound of her voice. She was soft-spoken, and the only words I remember her saying are, “Nice, nice baby.” My mother says she said that about all her grandbabies.

My Auntie Elease has a recording of Grandma’s voice on a cassette tape. Perhaps one day I can have it digitized and upload it here. It would be lovely to hear her voice again—to hear her say, “Nice, nice baby,” and discover whether the voice preserved in my memory sounds anything like the one on the tape.

Then there is my Auntie Pearline—my favorite auntie and, in my completely unbiased opinion, the best auntie ever. She was born on July 21, 1943, and would have been about thirty-two years old in this photograph. Today is her 83rd birthday.

As I remember it, sometime after the picture was taken, my grandmother suffered another stroke, and Auntie Pearl decided to move back home to take care of her. Even though I was very young, I remember the night she announced that she was leaving.

Our family had gathered in the living room of our apartment at Gordon River Apartments in Naples, Florida. I listened intently as the adults talked, trying to understand what was happening. When I heard Auntie Pearl say she would be leaving in the morning, I quietly went into my bedroom and packed my little light-blue, hard-sided suitcase.

A few minutes later, I reentered the living room with the suitcase in tow.

“I’m ready!” I announced.

The entire room erupted into hearty laughter, but I could not understand what they found so funny. I stood there as serious as a five-year-old could possibly be, staring at them and wondering what was wrong with everyone. There was nothing humorous about the occasion. Auntie Pearl was leaving, and naturally, I was going with her.

I do not remember who finally broke the news to me. It was probably my daddy. Nonetheless, someone gently explained that I could not go with Auntie Pearl this time.

I looked only at her, waiting for her to tell me they were mistaken. I searched her face for some sign that she would take me with her after all.

Instead, I saw the confirmation in her eyes.

My heart broke into a million tiny pieces.

I began to cry, lowered my head, and turned back toward my bedroom, dragging my little blue suitcase behind me.

That was the saddest day of all my five years.

It was my first heartbreak.

And so, one photograph becomes a doorway. Sue’s memory of Mydaddy pinching cheese from a block carried me back to Granddaddy, to the possibility of cheese tucked inside his pocket, and to all the love that still gathers around his name. That is the power of memory: one small detail—a voice, a suitcase, a piece of cheese—can awaken an entire world and return the people we love to us, if only for a moment.

~In Loving Memory of my Grandaddy and my Grandma and in honor of my Auntie~

And yes, I said “my”!

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