S H O R T S T O R Y
b y s a n d r a m a d d u x - c r e e c h ~ w e l l i n g t o n , c o l o r a d o
A FLATTENED dragonfly lies on the funeral home step, shaded by a crooked sumac tree. Inches away stands a pair of leather wingtips below trousers made of dark rough wool. They match the jacket and the slow deep voice: "It should be raining."
This is my father, mourning me.
Farther away are two closed-toed pumps, somber leather over charcoal nylons. My mother lifts a Styrofoam cup. Instead of the sound of hot sipping, I hear her release the tiniest of sobs.
Blue jays cry out as they land on the grass below the steps, threatening the sparrows away. The dragonfly is belly-up. Its underside is dotted with grains of sand, like armor.
I wonder how the dragonfly got here, how it got to be flat, whether it was alive when whatever smashed it.
Three boys in Hushpuppies and rumpled pants come, whispering, out of the funeral home. One of them coughs. His voice is hoarse. "See? There it is." He bends over and points at the dragonfly.
They gather around it, and the coughing boy turns the dragonfly over with one pale hand. The smallest boy asks in a baby voice, "Is it real?"
I don't remember these boys, but I assume it is one of their mothers who comes outside in beige stockings and low black boots.
"Inside now," she says, "and wash your hands."
In a dance of chunky heels and polyester pant legs, the boys hurry inside. The young mother's boot makes a delicate sweep at the dragonfly, flipping it onto the wood chips under the sumac.
Shadows crawl across the grass. Ants have found the dragonly. They settle into its crisp body, explore the tender parts and then form trails to pack the choicest pieces off to their nest.
The largest pair of Hushpuppies hesitates at the door. The other two appear behind him. "There," he whispers.
They crunch into the wood chips, and the tallest boy lifts the dragonly by its tail. I wish I could smell his hot, peppermint-flavored breath as he blows black ants through the cooling air.
He places the dragonfly in a small tissue box. Its wings stick out over the edges. With nail-bitten fingers, he folds them close to the body and drapes a peach-colored tissue over it.
"Now," he says, striding through the wood chips, "follow me."
I'm rising up through the first raindrops as the mourners move down the steps. My mother cries as my father holds her arm. The young mother in black boots paces the walkway in front of the building, calling three boys' names.
I'm above the funeral home now. I can see the boys in the field behind the building, standing around a small mound of earth.
The tallest boy has one hand in the air and he's speaking words I cannot hear.
The other two are solemn, their eyes cast down.
margin home | contents | links | reading list | marginalia | contributors | staff | guidelines | kudos | subscriptions | contact us
Layout, design & revisions
© Tamara Kaye
Active home URL: http://www.magical-realism.com
(also: https://www.angelfire.com/wa2/margin/index. html)