DEATH waited while the old woman didn't take a deep breath.
"Now what?" she asked. "Where is my husband, or at least my family, most of them are dead long ago?"
AH, thought DEATH, for a moment, ONE OF THOSE.
WERE YOU EXPECTING TO BE MET? DEATH asked.
"Well, I don't know. I've never died before." She shuffled a bit, the clarity of death biting away her self deprecating reflex. "I suppose I hoped there would be someone, after all I waited for everyone else all those years."
They were standing in the silvery desert now, and DEATH handed the old woman a small seed. THIS WAS WAITING FOR YOU.
She took it dubiously, "What is this old thing?"
ALL THAT WAS LEFT WHEN YOUR HUSBAND DIED. HE NEVER GREW HIS SOUL, SO THAT WAS ALL HE WAS.
A sudden insight, and she asked, "A mustard seed?"
DEATH looked up as a woman crossed the desert toward them, a determined stride, she seemed young and strong and gently irritated.
"Mary, what are you doing there? C'mon, we're late."
The old woman had shrunk to the size of a small girl, with copper hair in a smooth, too short bob. She ran to the young woman, burying her face in her skirts.
"Sorry about her, she's my baby sister. I'll take care of her." And stretched out her spare hand to shake.
DEATH was slightly taken aback, even among the dead this was highly unusual. She grasped his bony hand, thanked him again, "Sorry" and the pair were gone.
PROBABLY CANADIAN, THAT SORRY ALWAYS GIVES IT AWAY.
DEATH never quite knew where they went after, not part of his job, only heard the stories from those who'd never been. Humans, and their imaginations, always intrigued him. Then he saw the seed, left in the sand, unregarded. It would never grow there.
He turned, and Binky waited. Always more to do.
With apologies to Pterry.
2 comments:
Dear Zhoen,
An extraordinary fable. Thank you from the bottom of my partially Canadian heart. I learned in the past few years that the way I pronounce "Sorry" is distinctly Canadian, which comes from my copper-haired mother's side several generations ago. I wouldn't be surprised if we were distant cousins. You look so much like my mother's side of the family. I see myself in you. Part of my mother's mother's family came from Ireland to Simcoe County in Ontario, another part to Bury, Quebec, and others to Nova Scotia. I have hundreds of DNA cousins throughout Canada. My branch came to the U.S. through the New England states and on to Minnesota, which is where my mother was born.
My relationship with my mother was difficult. Her relationship with her mother was difficult and back through the generations. I don't have children. That creative energy has gone into writing and art work for me. My mother was a writer. I wish my mother and all the mothers in that long long line could read your fable with me.
Gratefully,
am
am,
We are certainly cousins. Thank you.
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