VINES OF MUSCADINES, AN EXCERPT BY: BRITTANY CARROLL
Uncle Donald Ray. He had my daddy’s nose. And so did all seven of my uncles. Uncle Allen. Uncle Preacher. Uncle Robert. Uncle PG. Uncle Bite. Uncle Bobba-Lee, not Bobby Lee. Wide and shiny. A true nigga nose if you ever see it. Almost as if God started molding the nose before the rest of the face. They all looked like my grandpa Solon. He died before I was born. 1984. There’s a picture of him that rest among all the family photos scattered around my grandma Rachel’s house. He’s standing in a field wearing overalls with suspenders and a ragged poor-boy’s hat. He’s never held me, but I’ve met him eight times. When I first met my Uncle Donald Ray, he looked like a skinny version of my father. He didn’t just walk. He trekked. Like he was always looking for something or someone. He had a blue ring around his iris like my Daddy. I discovered this blue iris when I was younger. I used to climb on top of my daddy while he was sleeping on the couch and push his eyelids open. He always would try to swat me away. But one time, when he was probably too exhausted, he barely budged when I inspected his face. I was always curious like that. I needed to know. Always.
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