How to Dismantle a House

The old farmhouse was sided in pine. It leaned...just a bit...to the right. Six months ago when they'd first looked at this place, the real estate agent had said it was an eyesore, interfering with the beauty of the pretty little farmhouse at the top of the hill. Tish and Paul had ignored her and stepped inside, Paul making excited plans and sketching out blueprints in the dusty air.

"You know your father wanted to turn this into his workshop," Tish says now, running a hand across the old boards, the wood weathered and grey.

Timmy nods and bites his lip. "You ready?"

No. "Yes."

"You sure you want to...?"

In response, Tish climbs the ladder and began working, worrying her crowbar beneath a piece of siding.

"Be careful, Mom."

"I'm fine." Tish snaps out the words like old nails breaking beneath her hand. She glances down at her son. His dark brown hair. His squinting eyes. "I'm OK, Timmy. I'm sorry."

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Beacon Hill

"I left Beacon Hill when I was three." She laughs. "I can barely recall."

He prods. "What do you remember? Tell me one thing."

"I remember the robins clinging to the trees."

He smiles, encouraging. Gentle. "One thing more."

This one thing more. His way, always, of digging deeper, deeper, deeper, until, by the end of the time she finds herself exhausted. "I remember the roses that grew in the garden of the next door neighbor. He would let me touch the petals, and they were so soft. So, so soft." Her voice trails off for a moment before she continues. "I remember one morning, just after a rain, or maybe it was raining still, a misty sort of rain you don't really notice." She looks at him. Is he paying attention?

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Rebirth

Agnes rubbed at her swollen left wrist and closed her eyes, as if to shutter out the throbbing.

"What's wrong, Grandma?" A wide-eyed boy, no more than seven, stood before her, his tiny hands resting on the worn blue arm of the chair in which his grandmother sat.

"Fetch me my heating pad, David. I got a pain birthing in my wrist."

David ran to his grandmother's bedroom and retrieved the pad. This he plugged in, and arranged over his grandmother's wrist.

"Not too hot, child."

David nodded and pushed the yellow button--warm--which made a satisfactory click in response.

"Oh, that's better, David," Agnes said, after a few moments had passed. "You're a good boy."

The words filled David with sudden warmth and pride. He smiled.

Agnes opened her eyes and patted her lap. "Come on up, David," she said. "I got me some scarecrow legs for sure, but you don't weigh but a minute." She laughed. "Why I bet that book we're reading weighs more'n you."

He climbed into her lap and stroked her cheek with feathery fingers. "Grandma?"

"Hmmm?"

"You reckon that heating pad will help me?"

Agnes frowned. "You got you a hurt somewhere?"

David blinked and pointed to his chest.

"Oh, David," Agnes said. "There's two types of pain. There's a pain of the body, like this here wrist. Then there's a deeper pain: a pain of the heart. Ain't no pills nor no heating pad gonna' take away that pain."

"We both have a pain of the heart."

"Yes, David. We do."

"What takes it away?"

"Only time, child. Time and lots of love." They sat in silence for a time, each of them lost in the memory of that awful night when David's parents were killed. Agnes barely had time to mourn her daughter before she began to fight for custody of David." She closed her eyes again. Lord, help me to raise this child up proper. Every day was full of doubt. What am I going to do? I ain't got but a first grade education. She'd fought hard for the child, lying to Social Services, getting the neighbor lady, the one with the lawering daughter, to fix up the documents right: High school diploma. A year of community college. The rest--good citizen, a regular churchgoer, model employee--all that, Agnes was proud to say, was true.

"Pain lets us know we alive David. Reminds us to appreciate the simple pleasures in life, like a chocolate ice cream cone."

"Ice cream doesn't last long, Grandma."

"No it don't, David. But neither will the pain."

He turned to look at her. "You know what, Grandma? You're pretty smart."

Agnes beamed. "Why, thank you, David." She flexed her wrist experimentally. "I believe I'm feeling better now." She reached for the book on the cocktail table and handed it to her grandson. "Where did we leave off?"

"Chapter Four." David opened to the bookmark he'd fashioned from construction paper and buttons from Agnes's sewing box.

She took the book, wrapped an arm around her grandson and pretended to read the words that swam before her eyes, making up the story as she went along, relying upon the pictures to fashion her story.

And David, following the words on the pages, pretended he could not read, so as to enjoy the tale his grandmother wove.

"Some day, you gonna' read to me, child."

"Some day." And David nodded and snuggled up closer to his grandmother.

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Cheney at http://hellocheney.blogspot.com gave me this prompt: Write about the birth of something.

I gave SAM at http://frommywriteside.wordpress.com this prompt: Write the blurb for your current WIP.

 Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Main Street

At this hour of the morning, before the main of humanity has awakened from its slumber, Main Street, a product of those who sleep, is largely silent and still. The stores along Main—Irvin's Hardware; Andee Miller's beauty shoppe; the Laundromat—are still locked, their window shades pulled to. Even at Harvey's Diner, the sign is flipped to Closed. But at Harvey's the lights are on inside. A warm glow flows through the diner like a heartbeat and spills through the glass of the front door and onto the sidewalk.

Bleary-eyed waitresses bustle around inside, tying aprons around waists gone soft, setting out paper placemats, putting on pots of coffee. Deidree Hazlett suddenly pauses in her work and laughs, slack-jawed. She folds herself neatly in half and holds onto her sides.

"Ain't nuthin' that funny at this hour of t'day," Winnie Jamison observes before returning to the handful of spoons she's buffing.

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All Exits Are Final

"I hate the way you rattle your paper about." Cheryl frowns.

Frank glances at her and grins as he shakes the newspaper violently.

"Stop that."

"Are you feeling OK, Cheryl?" He takes a sip of coffee, long and over-loud.

"I hate the way you slurp your coffee. Where is your dignity?" Cheryl says. "Where is your refinement?"

Frank sets down his mug. "If I recall, dear, beneath that fancy dress, your under-drawers aren't all that refined."

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Incapable Heroes

The girl wears shiny patent leather shoes. There's a scuff of mud on the left heel. Her tights are bright white, shockingly white, like too-perfect teeth or brand-new sheets. Her dress is red velvet. A long ribbon encircles her waist and ends in a luxurious bow at her back.

Her mother presses three dollars into her hand, folds the fingers over her palm. “Right to town and back,” she says. “Follow the sidewalk all the way. No turns.”

The girl nods absently.

“Are you listening?”

“Follow the sidewalk all the way.”

“To the bakery and right home.”

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