Tuesday, August 18, 2020

Memories of Mom, or Why I Enjoy the Macabre

Mom left Dad, again, and we were driving from East Texas to New Mexico. There was a horrible accident on the flatlands, and Mom pulled over to do the looky-lou thing. I might have been six.

Cars were turned over, and the windshield of one had a head-sized hole in it. There was hair and blood around the jagged edges. People were talking about searching a field for an infant that had been thrown from the car that rolled.

There were bodies strewn around and covered with blankets. Under one, a woman's manicured left hand protruded.  Mom stared for a long time at the hand, so I did, too.  The hand didn't look particularly dead.  Their were dimples at the knuckles, and the skin around her wedding rings was puffy, like she'd been retaining water. Water retention and weight gain was a hot topic with mom and her friends.

We stared a bit longer.  Then, in a tone like she wished Dad were present so he'd see what she saw, Mom said, "That's exactly the style of ring I've been telling your dad I want."

1 comment:

  1. That is a precious family memory. I think we all have strange little pieces by which we remember people, and which make us what we are.