SandScript 2023 [Digital Exclusive]

Soft Waters
Water Color
Marii Ink
“Who are you?” I snapped back.
“This will be the best Christmas ever!” Shmoo
danced around me, making silly faces. I scowled
at her incredulously.
Shmoo stopped twirling. She lowered her head
and shielded her eyes with her left hand. She
does that when she is upset.
“You know why,” she said softly.
And I guess I did. I just didn’t want to think
about it.
It started with a cough. Shmoo called it “COVID
Lung,” even though she had never tested
positive for the virus. She coughed for a year
before either of us worried. Then, she developed
intense abdominal pain, and she coughed so
violently that she threw up.
Shmoo doesn’t like doctors. But she was scared
enough to get help. The doctor thought it was
something serious, and Shmoo had an appointment with a gastroenterologist after
Christmas. Assembly Square was my refuge during this waiting time. There I could fix
any problem with little pieces of plastic. Anything that I wanted to happen happened.
On Christmas Eve, I set the train on its top speed and put Shmoo’s ballerina in the cab.
She raced around the track while we opened presents and ate nachos, our traditional
Christmas Eve cuisine. No one knew the ballerina was driving the train but me.
It wasn’t cancer. Shmoo had an ulcer, a hernia, and severe esophagitis. Now she takes
medication every day.
We are planning another Lego Christmas this year. Shmoo already purchased my gift,
the Lego modular police station that attaches to Assembly Square. It is new with factory
seals, but Shmoo bought it with trade credit at Bookman’s, a resale shop. She is herself
again—healthy and thrifty—and that is all I want for Christmas.
Assembly Square is still in my living room on the patio table. These days, it is buried under
jackets and old mail. Occasionally, I excavate and run the train. The ballerina still drives fast.
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