Why Would That Help?
Her son has a memory of her flat on her back on her bed, in a white nightgown, a type of inert mother he can sometimes be calmed by.
Her breasts poke at the thin fabric of her gown, and there are shadows in the folds of the bed linen. Gold flares up in her hair.
How generous his mother was to some people—but was she? Or was she a mother who murdered her children every day she spent with them, whether they liked it or not? Her son thinks this, though more sides of the story are necessary.
She had made such good use of the soil and the sun with her planting.
She worked alone in the garden. She always did.
Nobody helped her. No one else cared, she thought—it looked that way.
Yet the vegetables increased in number every summer, and were preserved in the fridge, or the tomatoes were shared with neighbors or set out in big bowls on a table to create a light atmosphere of celebration.
She liked to grow Bloody Butcher and Bobcat tomatoes, which are high-yielding and very early.
His mother never joked around, but, when she welcomed guests, she clapped her hands. And she was a workhorse type and was disease-resistant until she died.
What her son did not remember—he would have been happier in life if only he had—was how, when sitting, his mother had this habit of briefly lifting and extending both legs, then flexing her ankles and toes, so that her shoes stood at attention.
She would then nod toward her shoes with apparent satisfaction.
Why hadn’t her son lacquered that? ♦