Chelsea Kinney
We give a warning knock and announce our arrival before entering the unlocked house. The aromatic warmth from the kitchen knocks the late October breeze from our bodies. My grandma sits in her plastic recliner, paying us no mind as her hands cut up sweet potatoes and her eyes focus on the evening news playing on her dated television. I set my purse on the dinner table and place the homemade rolls on the counter alongside a few completed dishes when a commercial breaks grandma from her spell. She gets up from her seat to go to the kitchen and greet my mother, handing her a bowl of potatoes to peel before she gawks at my new haircut. Her hands grasp at ends that no longer exist as she chastises my mother for allowing such a thing to happen. Many years ago, when we were impressionable, she pushed the importance of our hair and made my cousin Cora and me promise never to cut our crowns. But I'm an adult, I try to explain to her, and I want to try something new. But she's not having it, shoving me toward her room to collect the oil to grow back her pride and joy.
I glance over the photos on the wall as I pass by, each memorized in order as I travel to her room, which hasn’t seen change since she moved into the house before my mother's birth. The bed I woke up in most weekday mornings a decade and a half ago is confusingly made up to perfection when I snatch the hair oil from the chipped nightstand alongside her bed. Returning with the serum, I weave over to my grandma and sit between her legs in front of her old chair. Mom fights with the peeler while the news returns from break. I hand over the oil and my grandma doesn't waste time applying it to her hands before diving into my head. Her fingers weave a familiar pattern through my scalp, sending fuzzy tingles throughout my body as I close my eyes. The meteorologist goes in-depth over the weather week and the cold front’s connection to the upcoming winter season. I drift back to the days when my grandma would spray Cora and me down with a hose as we abandoned any helpful hand during yard work to run under the hot July sun. A time when family members walked through the house as unannounced visits turned into mini gatherings, before the plastic hugged the retro furniture that acted as leverage from lava, before the cousins jungle gyming between soft landings on the sofa needed protection from my uncle's friends that came along with his unorthodox stays and smell of rubbing alcohol.
The doorbell rings, followed by knocking as Aunt Dee alerts us of her family's arrival before welcoming themselves in. Cora carries a loaded pot, her younger brother following closely behind with a cake container, pestering his mom by asking where to put it as she removes her shoes and rolls her eyes, causing my mom to snicker and get up with the peeled potatoes. Cora exchanges a hug with her on her way out of the kitchen as she takes her spot, her brother following after her to sit on the floor on his phone. She doesn't say a word, and she doesn't need to, as her eyes marvel at her own work of my hair, grasping a few of my strands and grinning while Grandma sings her praises for maintaining her length.
The many sleepovers we had at Aunt Dee's house that involved cutting Cora's Bratz doll’s hair gave her enough practice to perfect her craft, as long as we heeded her mom's plea to clean up afterward.
Grandma finishes massaging the oil into my hair when my aunt asks her why she didn't use the slow cooker for the roast, which bridges into a whole conversation about tradition. I plop back on the couch next to Cora, diving into our left-off text conversation revolving around her many entrepreneurial businesses to escape her 9 to 5. People arrive in waves and the living room fills with chatter as relatives pile into Grandma's house. Uncle James arrives last, in hopes that dinner has been prayed upon and eaten, with his coolers of beverages. The oldest of our generation used to form plans to retrieve glass bottles from his locked box at family reunions that involved Cora and me acting as entertainment decoys. They were able to snatch a few without looking suspicious. We should've been rewarded for the benefits of our efforts.
Cora complains about the ever-growing problems in her office job. As the basement door opens, a robust figure attempts to dart past toward the kitchen but halts as it collides with a second cousin headed toward the bathroom. The gathering ceases their tone for my other uncle, Tom. Wrinkles from his shirt stretch over his disproportionate body and his head peeks around his creased collar. Uncle Tom’s stick legs right themselves and he heads towards the kitchen. Activity resumes hushedly as some look around for their belongings and scan their surroundings for any crawling oddities. I share a knowing look with Cora. I'm reminded of my purse when I see hers tightly in her clutches, just as I feel pings of an itch alongside my arm. My attention moves to the last place I set it, the dinner table where my grandma's children have taken seats. I spot my purse hidden underneath the wooden chair my mother occupies.
"He’s here?" my aunt asks my grandmother.
Mom moves out of her seat, gathering dishes, while Uncle James straightens up, watching from behind his wine cooler. “He's staying for a bit,” she responds, removing the roast from the oven and moving it onto the stovetop. She beckons him over for a side hug, kissing the space below his eye.
The itch travels up my arms as I feel an imaginative creeping across the back of my neck. I attempt to stretch it away when the prickle of biting sends a spasm down my neck. I can’t resist trying to kill something that wasn't there as I slap the area.
"I thought you moved in with your girlfriend,” my aunt directs towards Uncle Tom.
"They're no longer together," Grandma answers.
They enter a staring contest that ends when my aunt takes a sip from her glass. Mom maneuvers Uncle Tom into a quick side hug before gathering the utensils from the drawer. The uncles share a handshake as James asks how his job search is going before Grandma calls everyone for dinner.
The collective all begins moving towards the kitchen. I stay at the back end of the crowd as the masses slow when Grandma calls for prayer, nodding towards my reluctant Uncle James. People maneuvered themselves, forming a distorted circle that grows as hands connect. Cora darts from my side and hugs Uncle Tom. Then, she moves to join hands with her mother, who stands next to mine, watching me, grasping grandma's, followed by a line of people.
My eyes scan for an opening, but as they travel, a slight sense of dread brews as I spot Uncle Tom's exposed right side with James on his left. One of the babies of the family is left hanging on his empty side, and as much as I want to ignore the pleading stare from my mom and break the bond between their chained grip, I know there is no other choice. My pacing catches Uncle Tom’s attention and his antennas twitch. Landing in place, I smile at him and give a soft greeting. He leans to his left, arms wide open, and I prepare myself for the hug. Tongs prick my side as I brace against his hard shell, holding my breath when my nose mushes against his shirt. Pulling away, I complete the circle, signaling Uncle James to start. I concentrate on the wooden floor, which snags on my socks as the itch consumes my body. I can see small red splotches in a line decorating my forearm as I peer over at our connected hands. The hunger pangs become stagnant in my gut as I crave a shower to rid my skin of bites. Uncle James closes off the prayer as the collective finishes with an amen and our clasped hands drop in a hurry.
I glance over the photos on the wall as I pass by, each memorized in order as I travel to her room, which hasn’t seen change since she moved into the house before my mother's birth. The bed I woke up in most weekday mornings a decade and a half ago is confusingly made up to perfection when I snatch the hair oil from the chipped nightstand alongside her bed. Returning with the serum, I weave over to my grandma and sit between her legs in front of her old chair. Mom fights with the peeler while the news returns from break. I hand over the oil and my grandma doesn't waste time applying it to her hands before diving into my head. Her fingers weave a familiar pattern through my scalp, sending fuzzy tingles throughout my body as I close my eyes. The meteorologist goes in-depth over the weather week and the cold front’s connection to the upcoming winter season. I drift back to the days when my grandma would spray Cora and me down with a hose as we abandoned any helpful hand during yard work to run under the hot July sun. A time when family members walked through the house as unannounced visits turned into mini gatherings, before the plastic hugged the retro furniture that acted as leverage from lava, before the cousins jungle gyming between soft landings on the sofa needed protection from my uncle's friends that came along with his unorthodox stays and smell of rubbing alcohol.
The doorbell rings, followed by knocking as Aunt Dee alerts us of her family's arrival before welcoming themselves in. Cora carries a loaded pot, her younger brother following closely behind with a cake container, pestering his mom by asking where to put it as she removes her shoes and rolls her eyes, causing my mom to snicker and get up with the peeled potatoes. Cora exchanges a hug with her on her way out of the kitchen as she takes her spot, her brother following after her to sit on the floor on his phone. She doesn't say a word, and she doesn't need to, as her eyes marvel at her own work of my hair, grasping a few of my strands and grinning while Grandma sings her praises for maintaining her length.
The many sleepovers we had at Aunt Dee's house that involved cutting Cora's Bratz doll’s hair gave her enough practice to perfect her craft, as long as we heeded her mom's plea to clean up afterward.
Grandma finishes massaging the oil into my hair when my aunt asks her why she didn't use the slow cooker for the roast, which bridges into a whole conversation about tradition. I plop back on the couch next to Cora, diving into our left-off text conversation revolving around her many entrepreneurial businesses to escape her 9 to 5. People arrive in waves and the living room fills with chatter as relatives pile into Grandma's house. Uncle James arrives last, in hopes that dinner has been prayed upon and eaten, with his coolers of beverages. The oldest of our generation used to form plans to retrieve glass bottles from his locked box at family reunions that involved Cora and me acting as entertainment decoys. They were able to snatch a few without looking suspicious. We should've been rewarded for the benefits of our efforts.
Cora complains about the ever-growing problems in her office job. As the basement door opens, a robust figure attempts to dart past toward the kitchen but halts as it collides with a second cousin headed toward the bathroom. The gathering ceases their tone for my other uncle, Tom. Wrinkles from his shirt stretch over his disproportionate body and his head peeks around his creased collar. Uncle Tom’s stick legs right themselves and he heads towards the kitchen. Activity resumes hushedly as some look around for their belongings and scan their surroundings for any crawling oddities. I share a knowing look with Cora. I'm reminded of my purse when I see hers tightly in her clutches, just as I feel pings of an itch alongside my arm. My attention moves to the last place I set it, the dinner table where my grandma's children have taken seats. I spot my purse hidden underneath the wooden chair my mother occupies.
"He’s here?" my aunt asks my grandmother.
Mom moves out of her seat, gathering dishes, while Uncle James straightens up, watching from behind his wine cooler. “He's staying for a bit,” she responds, removing the roast from the oven and moving it onto the stovetop. She beckons him over for a side hug, kissing the space below his eye.
The itch travels up my arms as I feel an imaginative creeping across the back of my neck. I attempt to stretch it away when the prickle of biting sends a spasm down my neck. I can’t resist trying to kill something that wasn't there as I slap the area.
"I thought you moved in with your girlfriend,” my aunt directs towards Uncle Tom.
"They're no longer together," Grandma answers.
They enter a staring contest that ends when my aunt takes a sip from her glass. Mom maneuvers Uncle Tom into a quick side hug before gathering the utensils from the drawer. The uncles share a handshake as James asks how his job search is going before Grandma calls everyone for dinner.
The collective all begins moving towards the kitchen. I stay at the back end of the crowd as the masses slow when Grandma calls for prayer, nodding towards my reluctant Uncle James. People maneuvered themselves, forming a distorted circle that grows as hands connect. Cora darts from my side and hugs Uncle Tom. Then, she moves to join hands with her mother, who stands next to mine, watching me, grasping grandma's, followed by a line of people.
My eyes scan for an opening, but as they travel, a slight sense of dread brews as I spot Uncle Tom's exposed right side with James on his left. One of the babies of the family is left hanging on his empty side, and as much as I want to ignore the pleading stare from my mom and break the bond between their chained grip, I know there is no other choice. My pacing catches Uncle Tom’s attention and his antennas twitch. Landing in place, I smile at him and give a soft greeting. He leans to his left, arms wide open, and I prepare myself for the hug. Tongs prick my side as I brace against his hard shell, holding my breath when my nose mushes against his shirt. Pulling away, I complete the circle, signaling Uncle James to start. I concentrate on the wooden floor, which snags on my socks as the itch consumes my body. I can see small red splotches in a line decorating my forearm as I peer over at our connected hands. The hunger pangs become stagnant in my gut as I crave a shower to rid my skin of bites. Uncle James closes off the prayer as the collective finishes with an amen and our clasped hands drop in a hurry.
Chelsea Kinney lives in Ohio. Her essay “Metamorphosis” was published in TITLE magazine, Issue 008.
