Storytime: In the Attic (Part 5)

The following will be a multi-part series from a book of short stories I wrote a long time ago. I shall record these stories exactly as they are written with no editing.

Many of the stories are of true events with some embellishments and sometimes a small amount of creative license. All names will be changed to protect the privacy of the individuals mentioned.

Without further ado, let's adventure into my 16-year-old self via our book pensieve. Here is In the Attic.

Of Sugar-Free Sweets

"Would you like another, dear?"

"Mhmmm!" I shove another orange-flavored candy into my mouth. Momma smiles, her incredibly wrinkled cheeks becoming even more wrinkled. Fleetingly, I glance at her hands. The skin is paper thin and blotched with purple bruises and liver spots. Long, blue veins interlace each other across the top like miniature rivers. Her eyes are slightly clouded with cataracts, though filled with kindness nonetheless. A pure, white cluster of cotton situates itself on her head. For the moment, I think of a stuffed animal whose stuffing pokes out of loosened stitching.

I watch as she pulls out a word search and beings working on it. Numerous ink stains speckle her pants and blouse. "Oh! There's one!" I point to the page excitedly. She smiles again and circles with word with a wavering hand and blue ink.

"Would you like one?" she asks her voice raspy with age.

"Sure."

"Mhm..." Those fragile hands shuffle through a drawer absolutely crammed with word search books. I hold the red one she hands me to my chest happily. Reaching over, I hug her tightly.

* * *

Her skin is even more fragile. "Momma...?" Nathan says. The five of us crowd around her bed. Those eyes are cloudier than ever. The skin on her hand is now as thin as tissue paper. Outside the wind blows in the frigid cold of December. I look around. Red, gold, and green colors decorate the halls in preparation for Christmas. The irony of it all. Momma is dying. She is took weak to hand me sugar-free sweets or word searches. Her voice is barely audible. No more stories about how she could ring a chicken's neck, pluck it, and cook it. Her daughter, Theresa, has now become Kyrie, Judy, and Gertrude. A few weeks later, Berta Mayhew passes away. She dies four days after the birth of Christ, so much death around such a sacred birth. She was 91 years-old.

---

I already wrote about this story previously here, but it's interesting revisiting it from a younger perspective.

I thank you for your time. Adiamas.

--Kyriel