Today's writing prompt, Old Woman Cooking Eggs by Diego Velazquez. Meg and I spent approx 40 minutes at it, because this Thanksgiving morning offered many distractions while we were trying to write and I wasn't nearly done when the timer rang at 30 minutes. Nor when it rang 5 minutes later. I was nearly done 5 minutes after that so we wrapped it up in the next minute or two. A friend joined us long distance today. Or will. If family responsibilities permit.
Click comments to read what we came up with. And then... or before you read ours... be invited to add your own.
She found him out back when she shuffled out that morning to gather eggs. He slept, huddled up on her stoop under a pile of clothing he had taken off the line. Her heart lurched as she looked at the frost still evident on the grass, and she offered silent thanks that she'd been too listless last night to bring in the clothes.
ReplyDeleteHis mother's visage was all over his sleeping face. That was her brow, the roundness of her cheek. Not her chin, though. That was from his Papa's side.
She swallowed hard and leaned down, placing a gentle hand on his cheek.
His eyes fluttered open. "Grandma," he whispered, and his face lit up.
She didn't ask him any questions. She just took him in her arms. He even smelled a little like his mother. She felt that she would never let him go.
But of course she had to. She had to get him inside where it was warm. So she helped him up and opened the door.
He hurried to her side. "Lean on me, Grandma," he offered. She was glad of it, glad to put a hand on his shoulder. And not just because it made the walking easier.
It turned out he had been out there most of the night. He hadn't knocked because hadn't wanted to wake her or give her a fright. He was cold straight through. So she got a blanket from her bed and covered them both with it. She held him on her rocker and rocked 'til the shivering stopped. She felt him relax, but she kept on rocking while his eyes drooped. She didn't know how long it was before he woke again, only that it wasn't long enough.
"I'm hungry," he told her. She wondered how long it had been since he'd eaten. She'd go get the eggs, then.
"Let me help," he insisted, and she was glad to see that the frost was gone so he wouldn't get chilled again.
The hens had been generous. There were fully six eggs. A veritable feast.
"It's Thanksgiving, Grandma," he said. "We have a lot to be thankful for."
She shuffled to her keepsake box and gathered up some coins. "We do indeed," she smiled. "Would you pick me up a pumpkin from the market? And apple cider if there's enough."
It was Thanksgiving and thanksgiving was what she was going to do. Time enough to sort out his predicament tomorrow. All that mattered today was he was here and they had each other.
I'm not really happy with Grandma's spoken voice, but love the wistful tenderness I felt writing this scene. Can you tell that Grandma is touch-starved?
ReplyDelete“Johnny,” Mimi warned.
ReplyDeleteJohnny jumped guiltily and spun to face her, discreetly holding his hands behind his back. “Yes, Grandmother?”
She cracked another egg into the bowl. “We will be having dinner shortly and you are not going to spoil your appetite sneaking treats. Put them back.”
“But-”
“I don't want to hear a word of it,” Mimi snapped.
“But I don't even like eggs!” Johnny continued. “We've had eggs for dinner for five days running!”
Mimi sighed. “If the chickens take the trouble to produce them, we aren't going to take the trouble to spend your family's hard earnings on other food. And sneaking whiskey isn't going to help your cause, young man. Put it back before I tell your father.”
Johnny's eyes widened and he scrambled back to the crate he had filched the bottle from, hastily shoving the liquor into its spot. “Please don't tell Father, Grandmother, I promise I won't-”
There was a sickening shatter. Mimi jumped and swivelled back around to see Johnny, staring at the shards of glass around him in horror, amber liquid seeping into the dirt floor.
"Grandmother! Grandmother!" Tommy yelled as he neared the little brown house. He shooed some chickens out of his way and called, "Look at what I have"
ReplyDeleteWhen he opened the door, he saw his grandmother cooking the same meal they always ate: eggs. He was so, so tired of eggs. He had probably eaten at least eight meals of scrambled eggs, five of fried, and even more of sunny-side up all in that week! He felt the object in his hands and grinned. Tonight he and Grandmother would have something besides eggs to eat.
"Grandmother! I have a squash!"
Grandmother looked up and smiled an old, tired smile. "Hello, dear. You have a--a--remind me what it is?"
"A squash, Grandmother." He beamed as he held it out for her to see.
Grandmother laid a frail hand on the squash. "Tommy, where did you find this?"
Tommy knew he could not look her in the eyes without showing her, so he turned around and began to gather the things he knew Grandmother would need to prepare it. "Mr. Baker gave it to me. As extra pay." The words made his stomach feel sick. He wished he could tell her the truth, but he knew that if he did, she would make him return it. that meant that Grandmother would have to eat eggs yet again. No, he would bear the guilt like he was sure his father would.
He turned back to her with a dented pot, a knife, and a stained, wooden spoon in his hands. Grandmother placed the pot on the stove and poured a little water from a wooden bucket into the pot. Tommy stirred the fire and added some wood to it. The water would be boiling in no time.
"Mr. Baker is very generous."
"Yes, Grandmother." Tommy turned toward the table and swallowed.
"When you are there tomorrow, tell him I said thank you."
Tommy began cutting the squash and again lied, "I will."
There was a lapse in the conversation as they both worked. Tommy tried to only think about the job he had in front of him, but with each slice of the knife it seemed another knife pried at his stomach.
He had been returning home from Mr. Baker's store when a wagon had driven by. He remembered seeing the round, ripe vegetables and so badly wishing that the man driving the wagon would see the acute longing he was sure could be seen on his face and give him one, but the man had only briefly looked at him and kept driving. When he was nearly home, he walked around a turn in the road and saw IT. The squash he was now cutting.
He scooped the squash into a bowl and placed it in the pot. He yelped when he touched the inside of the pot and looked at his injured finger. He felt the first tears start to run down his face. His finger hurt.
Before he knew it he was in his Grandmother's arms, and she was cooing comforting words to him. She walked him over to the water bucket and gently guided his finger into the cool water.
Tommy looked at his Grandmother. He was glad she was here to help him take care of his finger. He knew that she loved him. She loved him so much. How could he lie to her? He began to cry harder.
"Hush, child. It's all right. It will be better soon." Her eyes were so trusting. How could he lie to her any more?
"G-G-Grandmother?" He said between sobs.
"Yes, dear?"
He hesitated for just a moment, then said, "Mr. Baker didn't give me the squash."
Grandmother waited patiently and comforted him as he told her how he had really found the squash. When he finished telling her, she held his face up to look into her eyes.
"Tommy. You must never lie to me again. Never."
Tommy nodded and tried to steady his breathing. Even though he had been reprimanded, his stomach was no longer sick. It was a good feeling.
"I love you, Grandmother."
He felt Grandmother squeeze him tighter as she said, "I love you, too."
I will be honest: I did not write this in a half hour. I took a whole hour. I started it and had a hard time stopping. :)
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you couldn't stop. I got so invested in the characters that I was afraid your time would run out and you would cut off before resolution. I love Tommy and Grandma. Intrigued by the thought that he would bear the guilt like he was sure his father would. Love the bonds of love and trust between Tommy and Grandma and feel curious about the rest of their story.
ReplyDeleteMeg, as always your verb usage is rich. I love "filched" and "amber liquid seeped into the dirt floor." I like how Mimi seemingly has eyes in the back of her head. As Grandmothers tend to do. Mothers too. At least, I remember thinking mine did. Mimi's a great name, by the way. Where'd you get it? ;)