Grapes killed my grandmother.
Okay, I exaggerate. What I mean is grape, in the singular. One of them small round green things, translucent and sour. No seeds, them pesky bitter kernels having been engineered outta the grape gene pool decades ago. My grandma was just sitting down in her patio for a hearty meal of grape, like she does every midday. She'd always been obsessed with them grapes, even way before then. Grew them in her own vineyard when she was a little girl, her own mama and papa's vineyard. Before the revolution swept down from the mountaintops. Before them vineyards were burned to the ground, along with mama and papa's bare white skulls. Now I digress. What I only meant to say is, grapes have always been important to this family.
Well, on the day of her death, my grandmother had in her lap her favorite ceramic bowl. Filled to the top with them small green things. Shoveling them grapes into her mouth by the palmful, she savored their delectable sweetness, that thrilling sour tinge. Pulpy green flesh clamped down intermittently between powerful jowls. Sprays of cool fresh juice catapulting into the hot summer air.
Then it happened. A small pesky fella, not yet chewed to completion, wriggled through the trap of those white pearly snatchers. Escaped through the caverns of her palate, the singular grape slid down her gullet before lodging further down. Blocking my very own grandmother's breath-hole.
She choked, coughed, brought her frail juice-soiled hands up to her long thin throat. Hhk- she tried to mutter, Hhk - as her skin turned blue. First it was just at the mouth, them fingers too. And then the blueness spread across the rest of her face, the body, in the minutes that followed. I found her the same afternoon. Head slumped over the top of her rocking chair, glazed fish-eyes turned to the sky. Throat still clutched by frenzied clawed fingers. The ceramic bowl lay at the foot of the chair, upturned. Glistening green grapes scattered around her wrinkled blue feet.
Now y'all might be pontificating on the nature of grapes as weapons of lethality. Y'all might be pontificating, perchance mobianity should benefit from tighter laws on grape control, to prevent the future recurrence of such grape-related tragedy or whatnot. Well let me tell you folks something. Grapes don't kill people. People do.
Sure, my grandmother's dead. Sure, a grape or two was involved. But really, it was her own damn fault. Shoulda chewed, then swallowed. Now if I hear anyone yappin' again about those gun control laws, I'm gettin' out my AK-47 and blowing their brains out.