That woman, that being of flawed wisdom.
“That woman, that being of completely flawed wisdom.” Her father is mumbling to himself, rifling through the papers her grandmother had organized just that morning.
“Am I of flawed wisdom, dear child, or are you simply inept at figuring out something that is organized properly?” The proud woman seems to float into the room, high-waisted trousers perfectly pressed. Amina smiles up at her from the chaise where she’s curled in a ball, watching her father lose himself in the organization.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He grins at his mother, bending to allow her to kiss his cheek, leaving a soft pink impression stuck to his caramel skin and covering the freckles there.
“Where is your husband, Addo?”
“He took the twins to the grocery because Amina and I are too quiet, apparently.”
“Too quiet, you two? The painter and the author? Quiet? No . . .” As Grammama stretches the long vowel out, her crow’s feet and nose crinkle in mischief.