March 14, 2002
Slip stitch,
knit one, yarn over, slip stitch, knit one, yarn over.
The creak of her
rocker shifts in time with the clicking of her knitting needles. She stares out
the window not seeing the frost climb up the panes of glass. She hums slightly
barely audible over the crackling of the fire I set earlier this afternoon.
Her black hair
whispers with flecks of grey, course wrinkles line her face.
August 3, 1946
He stepped up to
the small café. Dressed in his worn leather jacket the click of his boots
rapping against the cold pavement searing the flesh of my own feet. He has a
thin stemmed rose in his left hand. His face solemn, his eyes intent, he sniffs
slightly in the chill of the night but only because he is too prideful to show
his unease. The faint scars along his neck remind us all of the past he leaves
unspoken but is evidence enough for the man he once was.
She steps out,
the air changes from a frozen pause to an arid current of electric tension. She
hands him a teacup, he looks down fighting the urge to rip her from her place
on the sidewalk into his arms and to calm her frazzled nerves.
Her eyes are
hollow, her soul gone from this night.
April 7, 1951
The third column
to the right on the back page of the Gazette:
Motorcycle crash
on the bend of Porter’s Neck. Authorities announced male victim dead on impact,
Investigators declare cyclist was speeding. No one else was hurt.
February 17, 1992
Patient’s
replies with murmurs that do not seem to resemble yes or no. Refuses to make
eye contact. Consistent rocking in her seat. She is calm. No progress.
Doctor: Hello
Maybelle, how are you today?
*Doctor waits
patiently, no recognition at her name or an attempt to answer
Doctor: Do you
like your room here? I’ve heard Nurse Bennett likes to take you to the sunroom
*No answer
Doctor:
Maybelle, What would you like to talk about today? Perhaps you could share with
me where you got this teacup?
*Doctor reaches
for teacup, Patient screams, grabs teacup and throws it against the wall
shattering it.
March 20, 2002
As I was dusting
the shelves today I found what looks like the handle of an old tea cup. I was
going to throw it away but something stopped me. I went to Maybelle’s room to
see if it meant anything to her. As I placed it in her palm and she slowly
wrapped her tired fingers around it. She looked at me, her eyes searching mine
for something I don’t know. She then shifted back to the window but she seemed
different. Content maybe, relaxed under her knit shrug. I wish I knew what she
was thinking.
