Maybe Later Essay

1418 Words6 Pages
Maybe Later She’s sitting there, a blown-out shell as hulking and vacant and lifeless as the enchanted castles of my beloved fairy-tale stories. The television cries for attention, but her eyes refuse to acknowledge even its blatant wail. Behind tinted glass—is that smudged dirt or a protective coating?—eyes finally flutter open, the first sign of life. Are they blank? Do they beg for help or scream of past and present pain? I can’t say—I haven’t the courage to look. The world rotates around its axis three times an hour and I run with it. “Soccer cleats, water bottle, there you go.” “Fine—I’ll be there in an hour.” “Okay, groceries, post office, soccer practice . . . hmm . . . what do you want for dinner?” Family…show more content…
She bends slowly, always slowly, reaching into a quilted and fraying satin bag and pulling out the gooey marshmallows that are her trademark. It is my turn to carefully count and divide the sticky treat, and I eagerly bend, urging her to more quickly present our prize. Recalling my manners, I wait for formal presentation as she straightens and our eyes meet suddenly. Hers are quiet and simple, but content—she lives to provide these treats. She smiles, lopsided but warm, and presents the prize. I smile, too, a grin of thanks, love, and friendship before I seize the package. I did love and welcome her, didn’t I. A painful realization. Right now I frantically dance in an impossible and hurried attempt to fulfill all assignments and obligations, to put a nice black check mark next to each chore on a list three pages long. I am jerked backwards and forwards, a marionette controlled by a spastic child, as I desperately run from vacuum to homework to kitchen. There’s a movement from the couch and I halt mid-dance. Maybe . . . maybe not . . . yes, feet laboriously search for the ground, and she’s up, tottering on what should be sturdy legs, searching blindly through perfect vision. In my imagination she is a prisoner—this is the Bastille, and she has yielded to the tortures. Gaunt face and decaying clothes mark the time spent in this psychological cell, and blank mind and
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