February 26th I had the sweet opportunity to attend the launch of Time and Place, a cultural quarterly. Nervous as a cat (cliché, I know, but I was nervous), I swallowed hard and went into neutral mode—think the idling of a car while you wait for a green light. This was a two-fold occasion. I also read a story I’d submitted! Yes, me.
Each submission required the significance of time and place regarding origin of story. (Noted at bottom of page.)
Tangled
It has begun…my worst nightmare. Myrna-Jo Bourke blinks and stares into the gas-lit fireplace. Nail-bitten fingers smooth her creased forehead. She frowns at a rap at the door.
A lanky girl, cinnamon hair streaming, soars through the finished basement to the Easy Boy and her grandmother’s arms. “Why are you sitting in the near dark?” The girl squints and pulls back for a better look. Her small hand brushes the rough cheek. “Grammy, are you okay?”
“Of course, I’m all right.” Myrna-Jo offers a fake smile and plunges closed fists into her lap.
Thin lips clamped, Lilli slips out of the light embrace. “Your cheeks are wet. Why?” Stepping away and examining the room, she flicks on the light switch.
Grammy’s glance drops and rises. The half-lie slips out between wobbly lips. “I’m happy to see you.”
The young girl leans in again and lays a warm satin cheek against her grandmother’s. Arms steal over rounded shoulders and circle her neck. “No-one hugs better than you.” Lilli breathes in the baby-powder scent of her grandmother’s neck, sighs, and tightens her embrace.
“Can I help you?”
Giggles tinkle like tiny crystal wind chimes. “I almost forgot.” Her nose scrunches. “Mum wants you to come to supper Saturday. For your birthday.”
Myrna-Jo’s eyelids flutter. “Birthday?”
“You didn’t forget did you, Grammy? Wait till you open my special surprise.” Lilli rocks on stocking feet, hands twirling at her sides.
“Such excitement over a little birthday…”
“But it’s your seventieth.” Pink-faced, bunched hands rise and slip underneath her chin.
“Seventieth?” The voice cracks. A spotted hand pats the bun. “Seventieth. And you are how old?”
“Stop teasing, Grammy. I’m eleven. Remember the hot pink dress you gave me last August?”
Myrna-Jo’s eyes wander. Time rushes headlong with a mind of its own. If only I could slow its….
Lilli grins. “You’re coming, right?”
“Where?”
“For supper Saturday, didn’t I just say?” She searches the drawn, clouded gaze of the woman in the recliner. “Grammy?”
Eyes dart left and right as the woman claws her throat. “Who’s my most favorite grandchild in the whole wide world?”
“Silly, I’m your only one.” Fidgety, Lilli caresses the cloud-white hair. “What will you wear?”
“Wear?”
“I know—your green pantsuit—makes your eyes look like emeralds.”
“Oh… Come and help me dress, will you…?”
“Okay, an hour before supper. Gotta go. Mom is setting the table.” She plants a kiss on the cold cheek and scurries away. At the door, she hesitates. “Grammy?”
“Hmm?”
“Love you. See-ya-bye.” Slam. Thump. Thump. Thump. She avoids a collision with her mother on the landing.
“There you are. Thought I’d have to come down. Wash up.”
“Mum, is Grammy all right?”
* * *
Myna-Jo listens to chairs scrape overhead and buries her face. How long before I end up like my Aunt Sylvie. Can I lay this burden at my family’s door?
Another glance ceiling-wise, then she gazes into the rhythmic flames as if answers are written there.
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A short time ago, while working on another short story, I rummaged around in my head for a particular phrase. My brain refused to cooperate for a moment. Because of my age, this made me wonder about memory / word loss and its beginnings. What happens when you are aware of what’s happening to you? What if you loved writing?This story is the result of those meandering thoughts, somewhat abbreviated due to word limit.
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This has been printed with the permission of Ninth Floor Press ISBN 978-0-9919730-0-2
Editor: Ed Shaw. Submissions: ninthfloorpress@gmail.com
How the Cookie Crumbles 
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