2008 - Glendale Community College

He reaches down, pulls cold wet socks off his
feet. He says, “Why do you keep bringing home
trash?”
Anger ignites in the tight of Lecia’s ribs.
With a foot she shoves the “XMAS” box aside. The
door slams behind her. She storms toward the
garage to lock everything up.
The boy sounds just like his dad. Last week
Jeremy said, “These chairs make our place look
trashy.”
He says she doesn’t appreciate quality--this
from a man whose favorite chair is a Lazy-Boy!
In fact each of the chairs is of good design and
style, some are even antiques. And all are still
useful. The banker’s chair doesn’t swivel, but it
still rolls, and the easy chair with the brittle
Naugahyde cushion lives in the art studio and is
so comfortable to sketch in.
But when Jeremy asks, “Why do you do keep
bringing these home?” Her throat strangles her
words. The ache buries deep in the silence.
* * *
On the porch, she slumps on the seat of the
Queen Anne. A green-ripple afghan cloaks her
tight against the cold and her slippered feet
rest on the seat of the broken ladder-back. She
had shut off the overhead light to better see the
steady fall of snow illuminated from the outside
spotlight. She thought the sight would soothe
her, maybe help her get in the mood for the
holiday. Instead she just feels empty.
Her eyes wander to the box labeled “XMAS.” She
should open it. See what’s there. And have Jeremy
bring the cartons of family decorations down from
the attic. She should get some baking done, too.
Jeremy has been hinting about her strawberry
sour-cream bread, and the boys want her famous
peppermint cookies. She should. She should. But
since Mom died, apathy has seeped around Lecia’s
bones and it squeezes any intention.
“Sweetie?”
A chorus of almost-men voices answers, “She’s
on the porch.”
The door from the den opens and the light switch clicks, flooding
the screened-in porch with glare. She blinks and meets the startle of
Jeremy’s eyes. She sees concern as he takes her in, sees the hint of
irritation when he notices the Queen Anne.
His thumbnail rubs the thoughts on his lower lip, “Did you see your
Dad today?”
She nods at him.
“How is he?”
Her icy words bite, “Why don’t you come and see him yourself?”
He looks away. “I just can’t, yet.”
She feels her eyes hooding, the hurt hiding. Feels the touch of his
hand on the Queen Anne as he passes. Hears the shush of his steps and
the close of the door.
* * *
The glitter of morning light reflects off snow pillowed on the ground.
It flows into the large east windows of the studio. It glints on the
18
Untitled
by Otto Gromoll
Stoneware
2nd Place
Traveler