By Terry Spohn
Armor Conversion and Detailing initiatives
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Extra resources for Armor Conversion and Detailing Projects
She steals,” my mother said. My back was to her. I was looking at a vine that had crawled into the huge fir tree in the corner of the yard and consumed the shed where my father had once done carpentry. He had always been happiest inside that space. On my darkest days, I had come to imagine him there, laboriously sanding the round wooden globes that had replaced all his other projects. ” I knew she was talking about Mrs. Castle. The woman who daily made sure my mother had woken up. Who brought her the Philadelphia Inquirer and not infrequently cut flowers from her own yard and placed them in plastic iced-tea pitchers that wouldn’t shatter if my mother knocked them over.
When I drove by his house, I often thought of the afternoons he and my mother had spent together, starting cocktails at five in anticipation of my father’s joining them by six. I would answer the door, and Mr. Forrest would hand me a paper bag. Inside would be cured olives or fresh cheeses or French bread, and within thirty minutes of his arrival, I would tuck myself into a corner at the top of the stairs and listen to her laughter fill the house. I leaned my body over my mother’s, took the towel I had used to suffocate her, and covered her face with it.
The dutiful daughter who suddenly finds her hand on top of a towel on top of your face, smashing that face in, something inside her hammering over and over again with a child’s vendetta finally fulfilled. I turned on the tap in the kitchen sink again. I waited for the water to heat. I saw the dishes from the early morning washed and put in the dish rack by Mrs. Castle and wondered what made her keep coming to a house like my mother’s to help an old woman as the days, then years, passed by. The Castles had moved to the neighborhood when I was ten.
Armor Conversion and Detailing Projects by Terry Spohn