Word Jumble Junkyard

Originally Written August 2024

The boy’s face was buried in the hough of his mother’s leg, and no matter how gentle her pleas, he could not be coaxed to turn around.

The curtains were drawn and the afternoon showers had passed to only a drizzle over the cobblestone. A toasting humidity wiped ]the room. Raymond’s bed had been moved to the corner, where the sun was the most forgiving, but it had not stopped the dying man from coating his bedsheets and pillows with perspiration. The Bed Nurse sat beside him, flapping a paper fan until Raymond brushed her away and called for his grandson.

Martha felt the boy tense against her leg. Hot tears left his cheek and absorbed into her dress.

“I’m sorry father,” she said, “it’s just too much for him right now.” 

Raymond pressed his palms against the mattress in an attempt to rise, but even though his body had withered away to skin and bone, his arms trembled under the weight. The Bed Nurse came to his side and Raymond allowed her to help him so that he was propped up, leaning against the wall. Raymond extended a hand that Martha still had trouble accepting, a deteriorating construction that appeared to have been assembled by her son’s collection of twigs from a recently felled tree.

“George, come here boy.”

But the boy would not leave Martha’s leg.

She knew this disobedience should be corrected. There were several members of the family circled around the bed but their eyes would not leave the floor. Cousin Graham broke the circle and placed a hand on the boy, guiding him towards a far corner. 

“He can not see anyways,” Cousin Graham whispered to Martha. 

A lump formed in Martha’s throat that bobbed with her next and every breath. She came over to the bed and sat at her father’s side, taking his hand and squeezing lightly. 

“George,” Raymond said, and the old man strained to pull himself closer. 

So Martha leaned in herself, He Can not see anyways, enough to see the clouds that had consumed his once blue eyes and turned his whole world black. 

“George,” Raymond repeated as he ran a tender thumb over top of Martha’s hand, “would you like to know something?”

Martha gently tightened her grip, as to not give her voice away. Already, she could feel fresh tears brewing. She bit down on her bottom lip. All the crying was done, alone in her bedroom, or so she thought, or so she’d hoped.

“I saw it George. Last night when I fell asleep, I saw it.” 

Under normal circumstances, any room, no matter the size or gusto of the crowd, would fall silent when Raymond spoke, but now, there was fear to even breathe. The old man had never turned down an opportunity for showmanship and there was now an unspoken resignation amongst the family that this was to be his final performance. Drops of sweat left his brow, streaming down his wrinkled, yellowing skin, over his useless eyes. Aunt Elizabeth withdrew her lace handkerchief and dabbed his face. 

“I saw it boy, what I told you I wished to be true. 

   Do you remember the parable of The Frog and The Fish, George?  There was a Fish that lived in a pond and would spend the day swimming from one end to the other. On some days,the Fish would see the Frog and other days he would be by himself. So one day, when the Fish saw the Frog, he asked him, ‘where do you go on days that I do not see you?’ the Frog chuckled, bubbles spilled from his slimy mouth, and he said ‘I go to the land.’ ‘The land?’ the Fish asked, looking up to the water’s surface, ‘why do you go there?’ ‘Because this little pond just isn’t enough for me,’ said the Frog. 

Last night was my most confusing sleep, for when my eyes closed shut they reopened in an instant and I could see, actually see, down to the exact detail from when I last remember seeing it, this room in which we are all presently gathered. I got up from my bed and, without pain, began to walk. My strong legs took me down the steps and out of the house, down the sidewalk, and the sun had begun to set but it did not bother me. I held a lantern that kept my path bright. I was so happy to be walking again that I did not stop to think about where I might be going.

Do you remember, George, that the Fish did not know what to make of the Frog’s statement? To him it bordered on heresy. The pond had everything; there was food, shelter, safety. In a sense the Fish knew of what danger was, and it made no sense to want to leave the pond. The Frog sensed the Fish’s confusion and chuckled again. ‘It is alright little fish, I do not expect you to understand.’

So I kept walking until the streets and paths that I was so familiar with began to dissolve away, like a paint brush running dry against an unfinished canvas, until I stepped into a place of pure and undisturbed white, and the flame of my lantern flickered out. 

‘What is the land like?’ the Frog asked the Fish, ‘and why do you like to go there so often?’ The Frog smiled and said, ‘What do you know about the land, little Fish?’ ‘Nothing.’ the Fish replied. ‘Well then, what would you like it to be?’ said the Frog.

I stood there in that world of virgin white and It came to me, hundreds of voices melded to one; man, woman, girl, boy – all welcoming. I asked ‘what is this place?’ and heard, ‘what would you like it to be?’, and I could not help it, George, but I thought of The Frog and The Fish and began to laugh. 

‘Can I be a flake of snow that falls during the first winter storm and coat my home in a new beginning?’ 

‘You can.’ It said.

‘Good. Can I be blade of grass in a field that the cattle grazes?’ 

‘Yes you can.’ It said.

‘Can I be log thrown to a night’s fire to keep it going?’

‘Indeed,’ It said

‘Good. Can I be a brick in the house that shelter’s my Daughter and Grandson?’ 

‘Of course you can.’ It said.

‘Good, can I get lost?’

‘That is a possibility,’ said the voice.

‘Is it easy to get out?’

‘If you would like it to be,” It said.

‘What is it like? What is it really like?’ I asked the voice.

And the voice showed me. George, my boy.”

With whatever strength he could muster, Raymond gripped Martha’s hand and squeezed tight enough that she could feel her knuckles wriggling around beneath her flesh, but she didn’t dare pull away. The tears were flowing freely as her father spoke warm with rotten breath washing over her face. Martha drug her free hand across her eyes and when her vision cleared, her tears had passed over, given to her father. Leaking from his cloudy eyes, she wished now more than ever, crying be damned, that he could see her.

If miracles existed, and Martha had remained a born skeptic on the subject, one happened right then. 

Raymond let go of her hand and overcame the trembling of his arms to hoist himself up, up, up to a standing position on the mattress. His brittle knees quivered and threatened to lose balance. The Bed Nurse rushed to his side but he sensed her there and yelled “Back off!

George!”

Her hand shaking, Martha looked to the far corner where Uncle Matthew still had a hand on her son’s shoulder, but, the boy had turned around, staring wide-eyed at his grandfather. 

The old man had never turned down an opportunity for showmanship.

He pointed his dying finger to the far corner,

“The Frog asked ‘what would you like it to be?’ and do you remember what the Fish said? He said ‘tell me’, and the Frog said ‘I will one day, one day, when you’re ready.’”

Raymond’s knees buckled and he crashed to the bed. The Bed Nurse was quick to his aid but was shooed away, instead he offered his hand again and Martha took it. He pulled her in close, close, close, until her eyes were directly locked with his and the rheumy, yellow sludge nearly touched the tip of her nose. 

Raymond held her hand tightly and stroked her skin.

“Martha, my dear, I love you. It’s going to be alright. I can only hope everyone else is just as lucky.”

There were no new tears. Martha leaned in as close as she could. As she pressed her lips to his forehead for a final kiss, she heard the the old man gently snoring.

–

The procession was simple and with only the group huddled around the room in attendance. Raymond went in the middle of the night without a peep; his last breath on earth was dissolved through the humidity of the summer’s night heat. The postlude to his life, uncharacteristically quite.

–

It was the end of August and an unseasonably chilly day. Martha had just sent George off to school and the clouds overhead had appeared out of nowhere, dark and black as coal. She folded up the collar of her winter petticoat to cover her neck and pressed on towards the house. As she approached the front door, something stung her fingertip. It was a snowflake, the first one of the coming winter. 

Martha looked down at it’s delicate pattern and started to cry.

Did I say ‘I love you’ back?

I said it, right?

Right?

The snowflake dissolved. Her hand shivered.

Martha started cry. She unlocked the door of her home, stumbled in, and fell against the wall.