Pretty Little Box

 She looked at the little plastic box in which the replacement battery arrived. It was a mundane battery for a phone. The type of thing that comes in whatever wrapping paper or cardboard box, usually a bundle involved in bubble wrapper tucked into a box way bigger than necessary. Not this one. It came into a perfect PET box made to size, secured inside of it with a transparent tape and the top of the box had a white ribbon to make it easy to hang the box on a store display. The label was clearly indicating the product contained in the box, its features in big font, to leave no doubt about the battery and its purpose in life. Of course, for a mail order, the same could be accomplished with the bigger standard cardboard box, the bubble wrapper and proper labels. There was no need for the pretty transparent box, the perfect silver label with black letters in large font and the white ribbon on top. But that perfect box lay on her dresser now emptied of its content, since the battery is already in use. She couldn’t  throw away beauty. Nevertheless, there she was. She had lost what was most beautiful to her: her children. Both of them had surpassed her expectations of beauty in different ways. Both were brilliant people, with beautiful hearts, beautiful looks, beautiful feelings, beautiful passions, beautiful dreams. So much beauty beyond to what she deserved. Like that pretty little box was too much for a mail order battery. It was even dysfunctional. A lithium battery requires certain safety measures for its transportation. At the end of the day, the pretty package would have to be put into a bubble wrap yellow envelope with safety labels stuck to it, hiding all that beauty to be transported. 

That’s where she failed. She was in such awe of all the beauty in her children that she didn’t cover them with layers of safety labels, bubble wrap, brown paper packages, cardboard boxes… She wanted to share them and their beauty with the world, without realizing that the majority of the people just throw away the pretty little transparent box the moment they get their hands on the battery. 

Some would  say that the battery is what counts. Maybe her children had their batteries hidden and protected in so many safety layers that the world thought there was nothing more they could extract from them and the beauty should be sacrificed for the sake of efficiency. To make room for more batteries.

She can’t see them anymore. She can’t hear their voices. She can’t touch their skin or detect their scent when they hug her. They can’t hug her anymore. 

She looks at the pretty little box and wanders for how long she will be allowed to keep it until the world thinks it’s not appropriate anymore: “Does the pretty little box makes you happy?”

Granny Squares

She finally found a destination for the granny squares she had inherited from her mom.

She remembered, as a child, her mom went with some neighbors to a factory store of a textile plant in town. They were selling yarn by the pound, with slightly imperfections. Her mom came back home with a ton of yarn\, some weird colors and black. She was going to make a queen size bedspread. 

A queen size bedspread of granny squares is something that takes an eternity. Her mom didn’t have that type of time. She taught crochet to all children and put them to the task of helping her. A bunch of 4” x 4” squares started being produced. The central square in black, around it shock pink, another round of black, highlighter yellow after that, black, another round of shock pink, finishing with black. If it was today, she would say a 3-ply yarn. Each square took forever. 

If she made a mistake, her mom would unravel and make her do it again. 

All of them making granny squares, nevertheless a queen size bed spread is something of a mammoth task. Even with all the help, how could they do it?

It was to cover her mom’s bed. She remembered all the children jumping on that bed Sunday mornings, chatting with her parents. Her mom would stand up and go to the kitchen to fix breakfast and get things ready to go to church. Dad would tell them jokes and make tricks. The bed was the largest full-size bed in the world. Mom, dad and all 5 children would fit at once. The world was perfect then. No need for colorful bedspreads.

Maybe they started the bed spread after her father had passed away and they had to move to a smaller house. 

She closed her eyes and saw the children, now 7, going to dad’s bed on Sunday mornings, and then every morning at end. His skin dried and itching. They had to brush the flaky skin and then plaster him in moisturizer, to give him some relief. Her mom was away, taking care of other things. There wasn’t going to be church for awhile. 

Back then, she didn’t know why her mom had that fever of making the bed spread. And those colors! Who would think about combining them together?

The granny squares started to accumulate. There was never enough squares. Her mom never started assembling them together. 

 

The children were growing, leaving the house. Her mom held on to those squares. There wasn’t enough for a bed spread yet, but the remaining yarn found its way into other projects. The black was used first, because it was the more acceptable of the lot.  The pink became receiving blankets, the yellow made baby booties, hats, mittens. There were scarves made. Her mom moved to different places, each one smaller and more lonely. The squares moved with her. At some point she started putting together the squares. There wasn’t enough left for a bed spread. Not even a twin size.

When her mom passed away she inherited the granny squares. All she could get was two pillows. One square 4x4 and one rectangular 3x4. Not even two pillows of the same size. Life is a bitch. 

She now knows... Her mom on that craziness of granny squares and that infinite project. 

She too now let her pain get entangled in the fabric of knits and purls. Bags with unfinished projects abound in her house. 

Counting the stitches numbs the running thoughts. She had enough pillows, anyway. Let's not waste the fabric and the fillings. And the feelings.

She goes on estate sales in search of other granny squares left behind. Other unfinished projects that started to placate who knows what sorrows. She puts them together with her mom’s squares. 

When she dies, maybe there will be enough for a bed spread. 

Time thief

 She couldn’t look at herself in the mirror. What her reflection showed was that her children were gone and she had to face their absence on her face, on each pore of her skin, on her stare…

Even taking a shower was painful. Lathering her body would touch a proof of life years,  each inch witnessing a transformation into womanhood that her daughter would never experience. 

The labor of breathing filling her lungs with air that would never be smelled by her son. 

She should remain silenced, because no sound or song or story would vibrate in her daughter’s ears. No use she had for any hearing now that their voices were silenced.

Alone, immobile, each second of her remaining life representing seconds of an age that her children would never live. She felt that staying alive was usurping a time that had been robbed from them.  

Old soul

People sometimes would be amused by her "knowledge", her "cultural depth".
She would laugh, because she knew it was just a varnish. Nothing too serious. Just things that you collect in your brain in the course of a lifetime of being observant and alone.

As she came to think of it, she had been old since she was 12 years old, around her father's illness and death, when she was left to her own devices.

As she grew older, her loneliness thrusted her into reading and then writing. 

People born old  should grow younger. Maybe that explained why she was so impetuous, a risk taker as they would say.

Even though she was piling up losses and set backs, she was still "going strong". "How can you be so strong?" they would say. She knew it was not a matter of choice, but instead the total lack of choice that kept her going. All she had to do was nothing. Just remain alive.

If it was for her own choosing, she would be already gone for good. She just didn't have the energy to take herself out of misery.

She reflected on the dementia that had affected so many members of her family. Maybe that was the way to grow younger. One's mental faculties start regressing until one can no longer be responsible for oneself. One ceases to be strong and is seeing with pity. Someone will make the choices for you now and will carry the burden of such choices. 

Why people die (or kill)

She had the impression of having understood why people die.

It was the same way of why they kill.

There is that fleeting moment in which you hold life in your hands. It's so fragile!

An idea crosses your mind that you could end it right there. No matter if it's yours or someone else's, but something stops you from doing it.

That is, until that pain that inebriates the mind takes over and all you want is for life to go away.

That's how you crush the little chick in your hands, or the dreams that are agonizing in face of the impossibilities. 

And there goes your soul, forever hopeless.