In the cookroom, I ask Old Mother what she knows about IT and BEFORE. Using her cane, she lowers herself to a softwood bench, closes her eyes, and breathes. In her nose. Out her mouth. In. Out. Some say, she presses a gnarly finger between her sewn eyes, they have scraps and relics bathing in symbols describing BEFORE. They say they know how IT happens. When this, she stomps her cane, becomes what this is. When what becomes—? Shhh, she leans. If you name, it ceases to be. Name wha—? She opens eyes and moves that finger from her forehead to my lips. They lie. Her hand slides up over my head and pulls me so close I can see myself, the glowing hearth, the world, reflections in her sandy eyes. Everything anyone says is only a story. Even this, she takes an egg from a clay bowl, cracks it on the table, the yolk mixes with clear, is only a story.
© 2008 Valerie Pell
was born in Northern California where she grew up despising her syrupy piano teacher but adoring her inimical cat. However, she has since changed allegiances and now lives happily ever after with her dog and typewriter in Chicago.
