EAT, PRAY, NUMB

My Grandma Judy and Grandpa Dave lived in a big brick house on top of Cherry Hill Lane. I always loved the name of their street. Cherry Hill just sounded like a happy place, something out of a children’s book.

The basement was our playroom. The main floor was the kitchen, dining room, and living room. Upstairs were the bedrooms and the guest bathroom where all of us cousins crammed in to get ready. Aunt Carolyn—whom we called Sis—had a bedroom downstairs, too.

The vibe of the house was cluttered but cozy. Think The Family Stone. A big fenced-in yard for their dog, Sweetie, to run. Rolling hills in the front yard. On the way there, you always passed their Methodist church. They went every Sunday. Sometimes we joined them, but my immediate family wasn’t very religious. Looking back, I’m glad I’m not writing about church trauma, too. My grandparents were true believers, though. Grandpa said grace before every meal, and Grandma always brought God into the conversation.

We’d knock, but we never waited. We’d just walk in. From upstairs, you’d hear, “Hello! We’re up here!” Sis would come out first to say hi. Then hugs all around.

Dad, my brother David, and Grandpa would immediately claim the living room for the Cardinals game. My brother was on a traveling baseball team, and all three of them lived for baseball. The TV was way too loud. They’d yell over each other, and Grandpa’s laugh filled the whole house.

Mom, Sis, and Grandma were in the kitchen with dinner. Grandma was making lasagna, the family favorite. Mom and Sis were gossiping the way sisters do, tossing names back and forth, and Grandma would stop them to ask who they were even talking about. She was too sweet to keep up with the drama. Then one of them said, “No, Mom, we think you could use this pan,” and Grandma huffed but smiled, pretending to be annoyed. A second later, they were all laughing again, the kind of laugh that filled the whole house. I miss hearing that.

I ran downstairs to Sarah and Destiny. We were making up dances to Jock Jams. I usually partnered with Sarah because she was older. We butted heads because she wanted to be in charge, but let’s be real—I was the better dancer. Destiny was younger and just happy to be included. We were sweating in our new tracksuits. Mine was red with a Looney Tunes logo.

Sarah was technically my aunt on paper, but she felt like my cousin. Carolyn had her when she was 13, and my grandparents adopted her and raised her. It was confusing to explain to people, but to us, she was just Sarah.

On a bathroom break, I caught Sis in her room, digging through her infamous pill bag.

“Hey hun, how’s it going down there? New routines?” she asked, smiling as she popped open a bottle like it was nothing.

“Yeah. ‘Let’s Get Ready to Rumble’ from Jock Jams,” I told her.

“Are you sick?” I asked, curious.

“No, hun. Just a little pain.” She kissed my head. “Now scooch. I want to see that routine.”

From the basement, I could hear the guys yelling at the game upstairs. I rolled my eyes and went back down. The basement was one big room. Couch, TV, rough carpet, a random bed, and toys everywhere. A pole in the middle of the room was wrapped in carpet for some reason.

Soon enough, Mom yelled down: “Supper’s ready!”

We tore upstairs, racing for the table. Tonight, everyone sat in the dining room. Lasagna, salad, breadsticks. The table was steaming. I was a chunky kid, and food was pure joy.

Grandpa prayed, then we all dug in. Silence at first, then one of his cheesy jokes.

“You all must be hungry or something!” He laughed at himself, as always.

Sarah told everyone we had a routine ready to show after dinner. Mom smiled at me from across the table.

“Yee-haw,” my brother said sarcastically.

Destiny raised her hand like we were in a classroom to let everyone know we were starving downstairs.

We laughed, talked, and ate like some sitcom family. But I noticed Sis moving slowly. Like she was about to fall asleep at the table. Grandma frowned, embarrassed.

“Carolyn, do you need to lie down?” she asked.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Sis said quickly, sitting up straighter.

Mom gave me another look, this time worried. Something was off.

That night, we split back into our usual roles: us kids in the basement, the guys with their sports, the women cleaning up. The house was loud, but sometimes a weird quiet would cut through. Serious voices upstairs, silence during commercials, and our water breaks between songs.

Sarah went up to get the adults for our show. The women always came. The men acted like they couldn’t miss a pitch. Honestly, we didn’t need them. This was a girl-and-gay thing. Our routine was messy, but Grandma, Mom, and Sis clapped like we’d nailed Broadway. We bowed like stars.

Eventually, Sis excused herself to bed. She looked so tired.

The girls begged for me to stay the night. Grandma said yes, but only if I went to church in the morning.

“I’ll bring you clothes,” Mom promised.

I didn’t mind. I liked dressing up.

For the night, we put on Homeward Bound. That and Back to the Future were the movies Grandma approved as “PG enough” for us. Her favorite show was Touched by an Angel, and it quickly became mine, too. Destiny bathed and curled up with her mom. Sarah disappeared into her room to play the older-kid role. Grandma came to the spare room and read me a short, spiritual kids’ book. She rubbed my back until I “fell asleep,” though most nights I was only pretending. Sleep never came easily. I’d stare at the Tinkerbell nightlight and the flowery blanket until my eyes finally got heavy.

The next morning, Grandpa told me, “You look handsome, bud.”

The girls and I walked to church through the backyard. The July sun was sharp. The church was classic small-town: stained-glass, bright classrooms, and a basement used for every dinner and fundraiser. I didn’t mind Sunday school. Miss Neva, the teacher, was the sweetest.

My whole family was in church that day—except Sis.

After service, it was tradition. KFC for lunch. Grandpa always grabbed it while we changed.

I peeked into Sis’s room to say hi. She was in bed with her coffee and daytime TV.

“Come snuggle with your favorite aunt,” she waved me in.

Destiny climbed in, too.

“Mommy, you’re up!”

She asked about church. Destiny lit up. “Today’s lesson was about faith. And Mrs. Neva read us a book about a dog named Faith, too. It was really good, Mommy.”

“Boring,” I muttered.

Sis laughed, looking at me and then back at Destiny. “Sounds about right.”

We lay there until Grandpa came back yelling, “Come get this chicken, you chicken heads!” laughing at his own joke, like always. That was the best part—him laughing at himself. Adult me does that now.

At lunch, it was the usual chaos. Grandpa’s corny jokes, Mom and Sis finishing a story, Destiny and I fighting over the last biscuit. But in the middle of all that noise, I noticed Sis again. Picking at her food, not eating.

“You’re staring, hun,” she said, catching me.

“You’re not eating,” I shrugged.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m saving room for dessert.” 

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The Hay Bales to Halsted series consists of stories and experiences from the perspective of Nico Sansegraw. These narratives are solely his own and do not reflect the views or opinions of GRAB Magazine. This series is intended as a work of storytelling and in no way seeks to glorify, endorse, or promote any specific subject matter. It is simply a story—nothing more, nothing less.

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