Little Concrete Pig

It’s mine, all mine. Not that my siblings would want it. Well, maybe. I don’t care, it’s mine.

Probably one of the only positive memories I have of my grandma is that of the numerous flowerbeds around her old home. Looking back I think it’s safe to say they were her one true pride and joy. Full of all manner of flowers, all I can really recall after all these years are the roses. There were also several birdbaths, that I recall being full of water and birds. There was an apple tree right up against her house, but there was a plum tree among the garden beds as well. I remember eating my fill of fresh fruit on a regular basis during the summers.

And then there were the little concrete pigs. All whole family of them, the mother pig and her three little piglets. I think time has fairly well destroyed all but one of the piglets, and I’ve got it. I’ve given it a rough recoating of black paint, and I’m hoping to finish it off soon. Then I’m going to try and remember how the white played on it.

My grandma is still alive and kicking, and somehow she continues to become even more of a crotchedy old racist biddy as time marches on. But at least I will always have a few good memories. And a concrete pig.

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