Vignettes 6-22-2011

1. The girl was born with a lion’s tail. At first the midwife and overseeing doctors thought it was a duplicate and misplaced umbilical cord. But closer inspection revealed that it was actually a tail; a lion’s tail. The whole delivery room was in an up roar of conversation. The midwife stared at the babe and wondered if anything else on the child appeared to be feline in nature. The doctor inspected the child. Wiping, poking and prodding the thing till the mother demanded the child back. She took to the breast without any fuss and the room soon quite. Everyone watched the two of the, as natural and as perfect as any birth. There composers reflected this but some faces and many eyes hinted at unrest. The girl’s tail lay limp against her mother’s belly. It would twitch and curly ever so slightly every now and again. When this happened, any talk would stop and all eyes would return the child.

2. My mother was the most beautiful women I ever would meet. She was also a coal miner. She would make and pack lunch for my sister and I, grab her white hard hat, and disappear through the front door with the quick and utterly sincerer “I Love You.” She would return every night, tired, worn and covered dirt and the fine coal dust. Out father would drive us to school and pick us up. He would make us an after school snack and return to his writing. He was a free lance writer for the local the local paper but would also attempt to publish short stories in various literary magazines. He would cook dinner and we would set the table just as she would come back through the door that led to the garage. It was as if had been caught in a revolving door that took a whole day to make its cycle. She would appear as bright as she had in the morning but covered in dust and grime in the evening. Would come to learn years later that this cheeriness was a façade, a mask, a lie. But her beauty never was.

3. Beneath an oak tree I had seen grow from a sapling she fed me green summer grapes. I would in turn feed her strawberries in late spring, raspberries in summer and cubes of crisp apples in the fall. It was my tree and in time it became our tree. I loved her so deeply. She was the strong silent type. At first she didn’t care if I made fresh bread on the weekend or fabricated pies and tarts from scratch. But these, among many other things, grew on her. Even though she said that store bought pies, breads, pickles, eggs and even the occasional cheese would be just fine, I knew inside she preferred the homemade items. Of all the gifts and things we shared I was the afghan I crochet for our anniversary. It was one of only a handful of times where her staunch demeanor fell and she express great joy on her face. Holding the woven fibers tightly in her one hand, she embraced me with a grip that could crack the oak boughs that grew above us. Later, I would give her a hard time about the few tears the came to the surface in that moment. She would half-heartily deny it of course.