Friday, May 11, 2012

Childish Sight

My name begins with an I. You need not know my name to hear this, and I choose not to give it. You may use whichever pronoun you choose for me, or just call me "I." Or nothing.

There were things I saw, when I was younger, that I didn't put into words. I didn't have the words for them. But then, we never do, at the time, do we?

In my mother's house, there is an old painted bell. The sound it made was my first definition of 'silver', though I might also use 'crystal'. It has that perfect, sparkling clarity. The handle is worn with use, and even now, when I hear someone talk of pealing, I think of that bell, that handle, and that crystal-silver ring.

The bell was my grandmother's, before she passed. My father's mother. Even after the divorce, my mother always got along better with her than her own mother. Grandma must have liked their visits, too, though I saw little of her before she died. Grandma left Mom the pealing bell in her will.

In my father's house, there is a piano. It was grandfather's--my father's father's. I don't know anything of my grandfather except that everyone agrees he played the piano beautifully, and I wasn't allowed to see him. If it weren't for a handful of hushed conversations, I might think he was dead.

My mother's parents are fine. They always have good things in their house. Sweets, candies, cookies, cakes. Shiny toys that I can take home, if I want. I don't know why, but they flinch, sometimes, when they see my mother. Like they failed with her. I don't know why that was yet, but I'm old enough to know I shouldn't ask.

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