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story (it's apposed to be a lil kid telling it) |
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Mommy Who Doesn’t Know
One moment, one moment, my mother says to me. My seven year old self cries waiting for her to fix my hurt. She turns away from her cooking and asks me what is wrong, but I look to my father’s bedroom where he sits to watch. I-I fell. I look up with sorry eyes and she smiles, kissing my bruise. You will be just fine then, she says to little me. I smile back, knowing she will always be there to make me all better. I slide off the counter and choke on my tears. I glance back to the door to see that he is gone. I can still remember the bruise, that bruise that hurts so very, very much. I was yet too young to know.
The Things That Andrew Talks About
Did you hear? Did you hear about Heather? Do you know why she’s not here, right now, with us? These were the things that I, of all others, was most curious about. No, I say, no not at all. What happened to her? Why isn’t she here? My friend, who is most intelligent, answers quite quickly, her parents are divorced. What’s this? I wonder to myself.
Andrew, who is my friend, I talk to at recess and ask him, what is a divorce? It is when two people get married and then decide that they don’t want to be married any more, he says. How sad, I imagine, I say to him. I know, he replies. What a horrible thing, I think to my very self. I am sure glad that my parents don’t have one of those. I’m yet too young to watch closely.
Sea Shells That Fly
Why is this room such a mess? He questioned me, thrashing about my things. I am sorry daddy, I really am! Please don’t be mad, I’ll still love you. Do you love me too? I ask him. I wish he would stop. My aunt’s special sea shell that she gave to my sister, Tiffanie, and me, it flies across the room like an elegant angel, then into a wall like a rock smashing sea. Tears fall off the soft cheeks of my sister, her lip beginning to quiver. You had better not cry, my father says to her. I start up too. Then he really gets mad. He pulls out a hanger from our closet and bends us over his knee. Since Tiffanie is tougher, he hits her harder. It breaks into two, and gets even worse. You, you see what you did? You made me break it! Why? He says hitting her. Why? He says hitting me. You’re seven years old now, Jessica; you think you would know better. But what did I do? I did not understand. I wanted to scream, but silently cried, shaking and choking on my tears. I-I am s-so s-sorry! I-I didn’t-t want t-to make y-you mad d-daddy. I could barely speak because of his hurting me. He didn’t console, but simply walked out saying to us, clean it in an hour, or you’re in trouble. Why do daddies’ do this? He does it ‘cause he loves me, doesn’t he? That’s what he said to me. That’s what he said to my sister, crying in the corner. Is life supposed to be like this? It seems normal to me.
Keys
Don’t tell him, okay? Don’t tell him, he’ll leave again, my mother said to me. Okay, I say smiling. Promise? She asks. Promise, I say. I love you, goodbye. She leans over kissing my head. She trusts me, I think to myself. She trusts me, hooray! I am so happy I make butter and bread.
I am always up early, early and bright. I stare out the windows in our small house, wishing to climb a tree that I see dancing in the wind. This morning is special, or at least to me. I imagine a party, for hiding those keys. I dance around the kitchen, to ageless to care. Daddy steps in and asks for this dance. Why yes, yes you can, I say to him, smiling. So happy, so happy for me he seemed. I wish now that I hadn’t been as blind. He asked me where the keys were, he was going to make music. I happily jumped on the counter, and pulled them down from the fake wood cabinet. Here you go, I say. I waited for the music to come. He walked out the front door, to get some more music, I thought. I waited for him to come back so we could play together some more. I got exited and ran to the door, for I had heard him knock happily. I opened it, making my smile walk off the dance floor. Mommy? Are you okay mommy? I asked. Where are they? Where are the keys? It had been raining, her hair was wet. Daddy took them to go find some more music, I say. She stammered into the room, crying. Why? Why did you let him have them? I was so very confused. Why are you crying? I ask. I look behind her, and our car is gone. I look down, disappointed in myself. Too happy, too happy, why was I so happy I made butter and bread? Why did I dance? Why? To young to know why.
if you read house on mango street, you would understand why it was writen this way^ ^"
 refering to waffles · Sat Dec 29, 2007 @ 12:45am · 2 Comments |
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