Mother Love

 

This is a tribute to my Mother.

My Mother, who has always been there, for my Father, for my Sister. For me.

As I edge towards the end of my fifth decade of life, I find myself thinking about all that she must have done and seen, all that she must have lived through that I will never know about. What was it like for her before me? And what was it like having to give birth to a deformed child? And yet she nursed me. She raised me. She taught me to be a good boy. She loved my face.

She was there the day I discovered my Father could cry. My Sister poked gentle fun at her for falling asleep watching television. And she’d listen patiently as I babbled everything I thought my teenaged self needed to say. Of course, I’d figure it out eventually, whatever it was. It was just nice to know that someone cared.

My Mother.

She welcomed my soon to be Wife with open arms. She grieved on the day I married and left the nest. We continued to hold hands over the telephone. Her heart never abandoned me, my Mother, who was kindness personified. Who I strive to emulate.

And now I see that time has caught up with her. Now she’s a ghost of her former self, no longer the woman I grew up with, looked up to. Kindness personified has become a slow and drawn out forgetting. She is reduced to haunting the shadowed halls of her oldest memories. I hope at least it’s beautiful there.

Is it supposed to be like this? Is it not enough that we die? Must we also be stripped of everything we are and hold dear? Must we be taken away before we’re truly taken away? Yet we live like there will be a tomorrow, hopeful in the face of certain oblivion.

For my birthday this year I want the impossible gift. I want her disease to be lifted, thrown away. I want my Mother to live well into her nineties, happy and full of years. I’m not ready to let go.

I wish you could have met my Mother, back when her spark was compassionate and bright. But she is fading now, and most likely won’t remember you. My Mother, who loved my face. Who stooped low for me. Who fed me watermelon.

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020

SPAM® Sushi #13

 

Remarkably, when Ellen awoke the next morning, she was sensation somewhat happier, but her mammy insisted they safeguard their appointment. Ingest crucifer and kale, likewise as condiment green and vegetable.

EinarMult

 

Dear Einar,

We know this story pretty well. It was in all the evening papers just a few short years ago. It’s such a sad story too, although some would label it a ‘cautionary tale’ featuring cannibals.

As we all now know, Ellen was a very sick little girl. Like… sick in the head. She was undergoing aggressive medical therapy. It has been well established by experts in the field that she was a sociopath who was against the slaughter and consumption of fruits and vegetables. The mere thought of these doomed innocents would plunge Ellen into depression for weeks on end. Imagine the poor girl’s feelings when her mammy repeatedly forced her to, as you so quaintly put it, “Ingest crucifer and kale, likewise as condiment green and vegetable.” It would have been a nightmare!

So, is it any wonder that she finally cracked, and bludgeoned her sweet mammy to death with the business end of a colander? Yup, she even made her dead mammy wear it as a hat, and sat her in ‘time out’ to have a long, hard think about what she’d been doing to helpless plant life for all those years. And when it seemed as though her mammy hadn’t learned her lesson at all, Ellen simply et her.

And when Ellen awoke the next morning, she was sensation completely happy, despite waking up in a madhouse. A cautionary tale indeed!

Tati & Tony (Two Nuts Who are Desperate to Find Inspiration for Yet Another Brilliantly Silly Story Even in Spam)

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020

100 WORD SKITTLE // Harvest

I checked the spotted page.

It looked like I’d done everything correctly. Hopefully the good sprouts wouldn’t be long in coming. I poured water into the pot and pierced a label into the soil. ‘Goldfish’.

At first my mother was happy. She adored nematanthuses. However, she began to smell a rat after a day or two. Ermm… smell a fish. Rotten fish.

She checked our aquarium and asked what we were studying at biological club. I answered, “Planting.”

Next day, my mother discretely put away all my books of Brehm and enrolled me in a dance course… just in case.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017

100 WORD SKITTLE // Keb’s Descent

Do you remember where you were the day the red god fell? Like a cannon shot from the heavens it was, and I was only six. Ma was bouncing me off her knee. She stopped that quick smart. A lot of things stopped that day. My childhood for one.

I couldn’t possibly comprehend all that this singular moment of deity impacting earth would take from me, but I’d soon come to. I’d learn that suddenly pa was gone, that I’d have to step up’ and be ‘the man of the household’.

There would be no more pony rides for me.

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017