I always
set my mother’s place the same way—first the fork, then the spoon, knife,
plate, the napkin.
I set her place
the way she taught me. I fumble, as I arrange the utensils. I want it
to be perfect.
I sit down,
opposite her chair.
Once, I watched
a young girl, maybe eleven or twelve, standing alone in the woods, holding a
leash in her hand – Come here, Rugger! Come here, boy!
I asked her –
Did you lose your dog?
She turned to
me. Damp red-rimmed eyes, breathless – No.
Then who are you
calling?
My dog.
Well, why would
you call for him if he’s not lost?
Because he died
last week.
I didn’t know
what to say. I just blushed and looked at the ground. And she kept
calling out for him as I walked from her. It’s true. I didn’t
understand what she was doing then.
But now, my mother’s chair is empty. And I sit here, alone with its emptiness, the twilight slipping away, the shadows gathering silently in my kitchen.
But now, my mother’s chair is empty. And I sit here, alone with its emptiness, the twilight slipping away, the shadows gathering silently in my kitchen.
Marc
Larock
Eagle
or Sun?
Octavio
Paz