Sunday, November 18, 2007

soul snatches.

She holds the memory out for me like a trophy to admire. "Stella, she wanted to see me, you know. Before she passed. She calls me in and says 'You know, it was really special when you were there for me when my brother died.' I was there, you know." I look down at the idle vacuum cleaner leaning against my hand. Its cord dangles, unused.

Stella died at the age of one hundred one. She had outlived three husbands and most of her children. Tonight that was not important.

"They was gonna call 'er in'er room and tell'er, but I says 'No, gimme a few minutes an' I'll be up there so she don' hafta be alone when she gets the news.' That ain't right. Nobody should hafta be alone when they get a call like that."

I nod in agreement. That is enough for her, and she continues on cheerily polishing her shiny souvenir.

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