Wicked Truths

There was truth in every story my grandfather told.

Like the one where grandmother wore her purple cotton button-down skirt to church the day he proposed.

I knew it was true because she loved that skirt. It's folded now in a box in my closet, the scent of gardenias still clinging to the threads.

Or the story of birds descending on the farm's sunflowers, plucking seeds from their faces.

But I never thought there'd also be truth in the chains bolted into the floor of our neighbour's basement.

Or the monsters that watched us through wallpapered walls.