Henry sat in his chair while the woman carefully and slowly spooned applesauce into his mouth. He loved the taste of it best when it was cold, when he could squeeze the pulpy mix up against the roof of his mouth and listen to it squeal back into his throat. He was careful to not let it fall out. The woman got mad when he did that, and he did not want to make the woman angry. She was very nice to him if he behaved.
After applesauce the woman washed his face and hands, removed his bib, and wheeled him into the sun. Henry wasn’t tired, and he knew if he watched the woman long enough she would come back and read to him. That was exactly what she did, choosing a beautiful book from the shelves that had all manner of poems and pictures in it. When Henry wanted to look longer at a picture he put his hand over the woman’s, and she would wait until he was ready to continue.
One day there was a visitor, but the woman still took care of Henry while the new man was there. The man asked Henry some questions, but Henry did not understand them, so he didn’t answer. The man nodded his head a lot, then talked to the woman.
“Did you know,” she said, “that Henry was a bomber in World War Two?” She spooned applesauce into Henry’s waiting mouth. He liked the way it felt in his mouth, sandy and juicy and cold.
Oh. This one hits close to home. The writing is nice and tight, the image successful. (Too successful; I started to cry.)
Comment by susan — June 17, 2009 @ 4:34 pm |
Sorry for pain. Steve’s narrative sounded whole life experience; I wanted to do more of that with a tricky perspective that would make the reader work a little. But not cry. <3
Comment by cymem — June 17, 2009 @ 5:10 pm |