Memories (3rd draft).

Thin body like the other Violetta. Not the neighbour, the one in La Traviata. Being 80 I was mostly parked in the brittle sun, trying to stay warm, hoping to catch Elvis when he next comes to LA.

At the time my grandson, the youngest one, being 17 became quite famous as an author. Helen, my daughter told me. So I asked her what kind of books did he write?

And, like always when I asked her she changed the subject, telling me that Elvis has died. Knowing well that it unsettled me, knowing that for days on end I would quietly mourn, would forget about my grandson the famous author.

Perhaps it was just as well, never knowing that he had discovered my old Pentium 1 laptop. The one via which I went on the internet, surfed with on the poetry forum, all those years ago. Meeting that poetess from Redwood city, she named the nutcracker: a zillion fake pus*y pics and the most erotic vocabulary.

Precious the memories, so I meticulously saved them. And what the little b*stard did was to edit it into a story and sell it to a p*rno magazine.