101 Words

My mom stands on the porch, as always, and waves goodbye when we drive away, her hand stretched up, swaying high above her head.

From the rearview mirror, I watch her small house getting smaller and toot the car horn, as always, when we turn left onto the road home.

She likes to clear the table she set for us, a summer feast on her blue-rimmed dishes. Sliced tomatoes soaked in vinegar with crusty bread for dunking, roasted corn rolled in butter and extra napkins for my kids.

She lathers each dish with a soapy sponge, savoring the last August days.

The bus stopped for a moment at traffic lights. From the wet-coat stench of the upper deck, my eyes wandered across the sea of passing umbrellas and settled on the warm and inviting glow of a restaurant. The portly diner in the window seat was instantly recognizable: Philip Oswald, the television food critic. As he sampled the delicacies laid out before him, I resented the frozen pizza that awaited me at home. I raised my phone and took the infamous video that would forever unite us on Twitter. My part was to point and shoot; his was to choke and die.

It’s a deliberate act, switching off the lights to bring in the cake. The joy on her face glows brighter in candlelight.

Those first couple of years she couldn’t shape her lips and blow, but in time she learned. Each of the ten candles today marks a road less travelled, every step hand in hand with her extra chromosome, her companion for life.

Where once the candles were lit partly in mourning—a grace to the child that never was—today they blaze and dance like the child herself, singing “Happy Birthday to me!” at the top of her glorious voice.

I buy a fake tree. Festoon it with lights, strings of reds, greens, and blues.

The lights flicker, casting shadows on empty walls and that ripped green couch. It takes up space, but it’s seen dropped popcorn, older sisters, smiles, whispered dirty jokes, and forbidden R-rated movies.

I flick off the lights. It’s like a funeral parlor.

The lights go back on. I flop on the couch.

Slender silhouettes form.

Laughter rises, tinkling, harmonious.

I swear I feel an energetic hug, fleeting but forceful.

Pot overwhelms my nose.

And I absolutely hear a whispered “Merry Christmas” while I slip into slumber.

It was a rough year to say the least, and the kids took it harder than most would think. There was nothing for kids to look forward to because it was dangerous to have large gatherings with people, because it was unknown what they could pass on to you. The kids’ school work was more stressful than before because either they were at home or with maybe two or three other students in-person, with hopefully a teacher unless it was a substitute because the teacher was ill. The mental health of kids today could be more harmful than a virus.

“This is hard work,” said her sweating husband, digging a grave for her cat in their backyard. “Squirt some gin in that lemonade!”

When Martha came out of the kitchen, carrying the glass, Fred was slumped over the pickax. Not breathing. She took the pulse in his right wrist, hanging down in the half-finished grave. In her ER work, she’d taken many pulses.

Knowing he was dead, she walked slowly back to the kitchen—her customary feeling of loneliness replaced by one of being adrift in the world’s ocean. Finally, although she realized it wasn’t an emergency, she punched in 911.