I realize that as I carry the plates back to the kitchen with one hand, I lick a finger of the other and round up and stick the poppyseeds off the plate and lick them off again. My mother used to do this; thus my frugal nature perhaps, or just the game of it, I do not know. But I can see her clearly as a child imprints her mother in her mind, smiling, as if the greatest satisfaction of a roast beef sandwich on a roll were in these poppyseeds that have fallen off with every bite. This is an old, old memory, so much older than the one that barges in impudently hellbent on destruction of a life: a woman who is my mother only vacant and unyielding, eyes dead to the life around her, focused only on the tiny black specks of pepper in her soup and with poised spoon, she attempts to pick them out because she will not eat them.
Flash Fiction Fridays
- 100 DAYS – 100 STORIES 2010
- Current Affairs
- MY WORK
TagsA Death in The Family At Swim Two Birds Barthes BASS Black Swan Green Blindness BLOGGING Borges Calvino Clockwork Orange Confrontation Consolation of Philosophy Cormac McCarthy DeLillo EDUCATION Faulkner Flatland Geronimo Sandoval Glimmer Train Henderson The Rain King if on a winter's night a traveler Ishiguro Jamestown Kundera Life of Pi LITERATURE Margaret Atwood Marquez Master and Margarita Munro Murakami Peter Taylor Plato Ploughshares POETRY provinces of night REALITY St. Augustine Steinbeck Suttree The Unbearable Lightness of Being Tropic of Cancer Updike William Gay WRITING
"I will breakfast from the cupboard where uneaten dreams are kept"
"I foresee the successful future of a very mediocre society."