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itsallovernowThis isn't exactly a story, more something that, well, I'm not quite sure what to call it.
My Mother Is A Short Story
My mother hated the heat, sweat soaking into the hair at the back of her neck, trickling into the crevice between her breasts. She'd fan herself, spray herself with the tourist bottle from Universal Studios – a battery powered fan and a squirt bottle of city water the only thing left as defense against the heat. I never did get air conditioning, and we'd sleep side by side in my large bed, windows open and the air too still to be anything other than oppressive. The cat, enamoured by the hills and valleys of new bodies would walk amongst us, curling into curves and tendons, hot against our skin.
My mother hated the heat, so when she went out onto the ice, my aunt following along behind, I wasn't surprised.
"You lay down on the ice," she'd say," and go to sleep. You get eaten by the bear, then your family eats the bear."
Since bear-killing seemed second only to mountain climbing in terms of what I'd have to do to honor my mother at the occasion of her death, I just nodded, wiping away the sweat pooling on my lip, thinking lying down on the ice sounded pretty good right about then.
My mother and my aunt went out onto the ice to die, lying down on the thick layer, brushing away the frost in order to not smear damp water against their thick coats. They'd gotten them on sale, and maybe would want to take them back.
Closing her eyes, my mother crossed her arms over her body, one hand over her clavicle, the other over her pubic bone, just like she'd always sleep when she slept on her back.
My aunt lay down next to her, arms flat against her side, corpselike. She still had her hood up. She didn't want to muss her hair.
It was cold, enough so that the ice cracked and crinkled, the sky grayish above.
My mother started to snore, the sound a buzz saw in the still quiet of the forest.
"Roll over," my aunt said, teeth gritted.
My mother continued to snore.
"Dorothy," my aunt, raised up her head. "You're snoring. Roll over."
My mother snorted, startling herself out of sleep, rolled to her side. A few minutes later, she rolled back. The ice was cold and she hadn't brought a pillow.
Soon, she started to snore. Again.
"Dorothy," my aunt's voice was suitably chastening. "Stop snoring. I can't sleep."
They continued like this as the night stole in, as it grew colder and colder, darker and darker.
Finally, my aunt sat up. "I'm too cold," she said. "I can't feel my fingers or my toes. I can't sleep. I'm going in."
My mother sat up. "Fine," she said. "We'll try again tomorrow."
She sat, up and they helped each other to their feet, slipping along the ice, clutching at each others arms like old women, tentative and determined with their fragile bird bones and strong Norwegian hearts.
"Maybe," my mother said, as she opened the door to the car. "We should try something else."
"Okay," my aunt said.
"I'm not sure I want you following me through the afterlife telling me not to snore," my mother added.
"I'll get some ear plugs," my aunt said, resigned.
"Okay," my mother said, as they drove back to town.
Later, sitting at my kitchen table, a space cleared for her and for my aunt, my mother drank Sleepytime tea and they both warmed their frostbit fingers.
"I'll still eat the bear," I say, drinking my own tea, orange pekoe with bourbon. "But maybe not now."
My Mother Is A Short Story
My mother hated the heat, sweat soaking into the hair at the back of her neck, trickling into the crevice between her breasts. She'd fan herself, spray herself with the tourist bottle from Universal Studios – a battery powered fan and a squirt bottle of city water the only thing left as defense against the heat. I never did get air conditioning, and we'd sleep side by side in my large bed, windows open and the air too still to be anything other than oppressive. The cat, enamoured by the hills and valleys of new bodies would walk amongst us, curling into curves and tendons, hot against our skin.
My mother hated the heat, so when she went out onto the ice, my aunt following along behind, I wasn't surprised.
"You lay down on the ice," she'd say," and go to sleep. You get eaten by the bear, then your family eats the bear."
Since bear-killing seemed second only to mountain climbing in terms of what I'd have to do to honor my mother at the occasion of her death, I just nodded, wiping away the sweat pooling on my lip, thinking lying down on the ice sounded pretty good right about then.
My mother and my aunt went out onto the ice to die, lying down on the thick layer, brushing away the frost in order to not smear damp water against their thick coats. They'd gotten them on sale, and maybe would want to take them back.
Closing her eyes, my mother crossed her arms over her body, one hand over her clavicle, the other over her pubic bone, just like she'd always sleep when she slept on her back.
My aunt lay down next to her, arms flat against her side, corpselike. She still had her hood up. She didn't want to muss her hair.
It was cold, enough so that the ice cracked and crinkled, the sky grayish above.
My mother started to snore, the sound a buzz saw in the still quiet of the forest.
"Roll over," my aunt said, teeth gritted.
My mother continued to snore.
"Dorothy," my aunt, raised up her head. "You're snoring. Roll over."
My mother snorted, startling herself out of sleep, rolled to her side. A few minutes later, she rolled back. The ice was cold and she hadn't brought a pillow.
Soon, she started to snore. Again.
"Dorothy," my aunt's voice was suitably chastening. "Stop snoring. I can't sleep."
They continued like this as the night stole in, as it grew colder and colder, darker and darker.
Finally, my aunt sat up. "I'm too cold," she said. "I can't feel my fingers or my toes. I can't sleep. I'm going in."
My mother sat up. "Fine," she said. "We'll try again tomorrow."
She sat, up and they helped each other to their feet, slipping along the ice, clutching at each others arms like old women, tentative and determined with their fragile bird bones and strong Norwegian hearts.
"Maybe," my mother said, as she opened the door to the car. "We should try something else."
"Okay," my aunt said.
"I'm not sure I want you following me through the afterlife telling me not to snore," my mother added.
"I'll get some ear plugs," my aunt said, resigned.
"Okay," my mother said, as they drove back to town.
Later, sitting at my kitchen table, a space cleared for her and for my aunt, my mother drank Sleepytime tea and they both warmed their frostbit fingers.
"I'll still eat the bear," I say, drinking my own tea, orange pekoe with bourbon. "But maybe not now."
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no subject
Date: 2006-07-24 11:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-24 04:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-24 10:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-24 02:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-24 04:50 pm (UTC)My mother and I actually had a version of this conversation:)