draft

Makin’ Sausage

It was somethin’ we just did. We made sausage everyday. At first I didn’t know what to do. He told me to just be quiet so I was quiet. I didn’t understand much so I just took things in like how he looked. His hands were puffy like sausage. Swollen. Sausage ain’t one color. It’s got spots on it: some white, some pink, some purplish and brown, kinda greasy lookin.’ It’s ugly.

First he would grind the meat. Grind, grind. Grind till he was sure wasn’t no bone it. He didn’t ask but I coulda told him there was no bone. I didn’t feel anything. When he was done grindin’, then he’d pump the meat. I didn’t know if you needed to pump meat when it was already mushed up, but he’d pump it. He’d pump and pump and pump some more. He’d take the meat and stuff it in his skin. Stuffed and pumped. Stuffed and pumped till he couldn’t get no more meat in his skin.

When he was done, he’d sometimes wipe the sweat off his forehead with his hand. Makin’ sausage was hard. Sometimes there would be a little blood but not usually. He was good at makin’ sausage. He’d grunt a little when he was done. I didn’t say nothin’. I was quiet like he told me. We made sausage everyday till we didn’t do it no more.


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