Mom would drop me off at the tiny, shotgun house on Daffodil Drive every Sunday after church, so she could shop for our week’s groceries without me pulling at her Sunday dress and asking for cookies. I’d sit in the recliner that used to belong to my grandfather and watch the Nascar race while my grandmother made tomato and lettuce sandwiches with so much mayonnaise my hands would be dripping an unnatural white laced with little streams of red juice. The wallpaper had turned yellow from the smoke, but my mother had told her she wasn’t allowed to smoke inside when I came over. ‘That’s why I’m so short, and my head's so small and hats never fit me right, Mom,’ she’d say. I suppose that’s why I’m so big; my grandmother fed me lettuce and tomato sandwiches and smoked on the porch. She’d open the door outside and lean on the thin, rusted metal railing with flakes of white paint peeling and falling into the grass. She always left the door open. Her head was like the skull of a capuchin monkey resting on top of her bony shoulder blades. As a child, I crouched in the doorway as I watched the smoke fall from the holes in her face. ‘Go back inside, you ain’t to be out here whiles I’m smoking.’ In the kitchen, there was the potato crate and I’d take tooth picks and staples and push pins and make potato voodoo dolls and I’d sneak my grandmother’s lighter away and burn the potato man until it stunk, at which point she’d yell at me for playing with fire and tell me that I’ll piss the bed if I keep burning things. Given the amount of times a day she flicked her lighter on, I thought that she must wet the bed often. ‘Go watch them race cars,’ she said. ‘You might miss a wreck if’n you keep messin’ around.’