The letter sat on the kitchen counter for three days before Georgette opened it.
When I deboned the chicken, the letter was there. No return address.
When I trussed the chicken roll, the letter was there. Georgette’s name, with the last name from her first marriage, was scribbled in a sloppy hand; the rest of our address was precise enough.
But when I pulled from the oven the roasting pan with the ballotine and vegetables, the letter was not there.
Georgette had come in while I was cutting the vegetables and asked if I needed any help. I hadn’t. She had wrapped her arms around me and kissed the back of my neck as I sliced the carrots. She laid her head on my back and held it there for a moment, and then she must have taken the letter with her when she left the kitchen.
***
Georgette was not in the house. I had checked every room. I had checked the basement.
I put on my garden shoes and rain jacket and went out into the gloom of the rainy twilight.
The light was on in the potting shed at the bottom of the garden along the creek that forms the southern boundary of our property.
I never know where to step in her garden, especially in early spring before anything has sprouted. I have neither a green thumb nor any awareness of what a mound or trench represents. They all look like paths to me.
I followed what looked like Georgette’s freshest set of footprints down to the potting shed.
***
The clear acrylic panel in the door showed Georgette sitting in the old wooden chair with her back to the door.
The back of her neck was bare. I wanted to kiss it.
I tapped on the window and said, “Dinner is ready.”
Georgette turned her head a quarter turn and nodded once. Then she resumed reading her letter.
***
I had finished eating and was doing the dishes when Georgette returned to the house.
“It smells so good in here,” she said.
“Your plate is in the oven.”
Georgette wrapped her arms around me and kissed the back of my neck as I scrubbed the roasting pan. She laid her head on my back and held it there for a moment.
Her hands bore the acrid smell of charred paper.
***
The next morning, on my walk around the property and along the creek, I found the remains of the potting shed still smoldering. The acrylic window was partially melted and entirely white, as white as a piece of paper waiting to bear a message of some import, or perhaps to record the recipe for chicken ballotine.
Originally published March 31, 2020
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Fantastic! Georgette gets increasingly complex. And I’m sure I’m not alone in knowing the feeling. 🙂 I like how you’ve created this moment of release-then-something-like-tension (that’s the technical term I learned while working on my MFA) when we understand she’s burned the letter and then (!) realize she burned the whole damn shed down!
Yes! And what a nice moment it was when I ‘discovered’ it when writing. And the release-then-something-like-tension is something I always call (and just made up this moment) the door kicking your butt on the way out. 😀
Love that!
I’m enjoying these fascinating vignettes of yours, and you have got me interested in this form of writing.
That’s great, Willa! Let me know how it goes. 🙂
love your style of writing-intriguing and so much said in so little!
Thanks! It’s a lot of fun. 🙂
Maybe, she burned the letter, out of spite for the one who’d, written it and, sent it to her, or maybe, she’d, “scorched” it up, because she had, something to hide, and, didn’t want you to, read it…either way, you will, never know the, content of that letter and, it may make you, wonder…
“Her hands bore the acrid smell of charred paper.” Poignant.
I didn’t see that twist. Makes me more curious about the contents of the letter.
Such tender writing. Beautiful.
What had been in the letter that lead to such an action will haunt the other person. Very well written,
This is good writing. I felt like I was there with you and Georgette.
Intriguing. My healthcare background and study of psychology saw me read this as a heartfelt meditation on the enduring bonds of love and the challenges posed by memory loss. I read it from the perspective of caring for someone with one of the dementias. Through its evocative language and emotional depth, the poem invites readers to reflect on the nature of identity and the ways in which we connect with those we care for, even as time and memory shift around us. We walk carefully through their garden, peeping through their windows and, if we genuinely care, leaving them the space even when it means they sometimes burn things down. We just need to be there when it means something to them and accept what is given when it is given. Only when I read the comments did I consider it could be read more literally.
Beautifully written, I love your descriptions! I feel like I am there immersed in the story!
Thank you for liking my post. I am just really happy that you liked my post. I will read your posts. Hopefully we connect sometime. Have a good night. I will be on here tonight. See ya. Be safe on here.
Shimmering storytelling
I liked the descriptions of the cooking of the chicken interspersed with the emotions of the relationship.
Such an unexpected ending! Bravo.
Excellent writing, I enjoyed it. Thanks.
Um, someone’s off their meds. Haha, JK. Great writing.