Exploration

A first person persona narrator deals with immediate pain and loss and goes 
through everyday-type tasks while dealing with grief.  The mood is sad, the 
tone is matter-of-fact.

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	It isn’t real until she opens the car door as she meets me at the 
airport shuttle.  The sun glows through her yellow tones, her ochre skin.  She 
doesn’t smile, but that isn’t unusual.  My uncle’s voice on the telephone 
replayed.  Your mother is dying, his first sentence, matter-of-fact, uncle-type
phone call.   She’s turned bright yellow.  You need to come take care of her.

	I don’t want you here.  I crawl into the car. You’re stuck with me.

	She drives back to her house in silence.  This is going to be fun I 
tell the cactus as they drive by, yellow and dessicated in the early spring 
drought.   Even the palo verdes are dry and sporting yellow-brown patches.

	I drag my suitcase into the study, pull the folding bed out of the 
closet, pick up my cell phone and call my husband.  He was right.  She’s dying.

	The kids, my kids, are watching a movie in the background, one of my 
favorites.  I can hear the tinny music, We all live in a ….
 
	I’ll talk to them later, I say.

	The bookshelves in front of me are blank – their titles missing.  Their
old, red leather covers are faded yellow from too many years near the Tucson 
sun.  Mom, what do you want for lunch?

	She wants rice and chicken.  I start the rice and pull the chicken 
breast from the fridge.  I stare at the skin – loose with yellow fat.  Put it 
back and escape out the backdoor.
  
	I’ll be back in a bit.  El Pollo Loco is two miles away.   Traffic 
isn’t bad.  An old, yellow Jeep CJ7 pulls up next to me on Campbell.  The 
rusted spots on the fender and hood glint in the sun.  The old man with the 
loose, tanned-brown skin smiles me a white, white smile.  I pull into the 
parking lot and stop.

	I’m fine.  Can I talk to the kids?

	Yes, grandma’s fine….  Yes, she’s yellow….  Was the movie good?  Yes, I
would like a yellow submarine, too.

	The chicken sits in its yellow bag on the front seat.  I know I won’t 
eat it.
	
	The rice is done.  In the cupboard, I find some pinto beans.  While 
they microwave, I set out the plates.  New since I’ve been here, Mexican-style,
yellow sunflowers on a brown background.  Rice and chicken for her, rice and 
beans for me, but no greens.  I take them out on the back porch.
  
	Under the grapevines, we sit and watch the doves, cardinals and 
sparrows at the	feeder.   The sky heads into that odd yellowed winter-in-the-
desert tone.

	Mom, you’re really yellow, I say, because there is nothing else to say.

	I know.

Kathleen Speck
06/13/09