—NO NEED TO STAND SO FAR AWAY

 

                                            Witches                            

        People call her a witch, but they don’t know.

       I watch her slump.  She’s always slumped over—when walking, seated, sleeping.  Her hair is a matted fern, covering her face while Merv Griffin grins on the television set.  The blinds are closed and a stripe of light, thin as a stalk of uncooked pasta, cuts the window in two.

       My brother and dad have gone hunting.  Last week they killed a buck and had me take pictures of them standing beside the bloody carcass.  The two of them are close, like friends, how I will never be.

       My mother’s breath is a rasp-and-hum, rasp-and-hum, a lawn mower stuck in mud.

       I get a hairbrush from the bathroom and sit down on the sofa beside her, gently working through the tangled mess.  I tell her about school and girls I only know peripherally.  I don’t say how they call me The Witch’s Daughter, Satan’s Spawn, names like that.  I make up a story about a boy who loves and protects me.  I say his name is Gary.  I tell her he would make a wonderful son in-law someday.

       I make chicken noodle soup and spoon some into her mouth.  She has a hard time chewing the noodles and bits of them cling to her lower lip looking like crumbled molars.

       I tell her that whatever’s happened to her is an accident of the body or mind, some type of physical failure.  I say, “Someday you’ll be better, tip top.  You’ll see.”

       Her small head sways like a buoy.  Warm tears—hers and mine--spill over my palms.

       I stand her up and help her shuffle across the room, out the door, down the steps and into the car.  I’ve packed everything we’ll need and, even though it hardly fills up the trunk or backseat, I’m certain it’s enough.

       As we drive away, for fun, I cast a spell—nothing evil or spiteful.  Just a simple incantation so people will forget who we ever were.