I had a rough conversation with my boy today, about him and his girl. It put me in mind about the time I found my ma sitting alone in the kitchen on a hot summer day after she had a doctor’s appointment, looking out the window and across the empty, overgrown fields. She’d tried calling my dad at work about something, she said, but he wasn’t there. I asked was Dad gonna be home late and she said no. She told me to sit down; I did. Most boys have their rebel phase around fifteen, but I’ve been a mama’s boy all my life.
I sat opposite her at the kitchen table, not knowing what to do or say. She reached out and grabbed my hand. Didn’t say anything, but kept a hold on my hand. Tight. She had that look, when you want to say something but can’t, you know what I mean? Then she got up and went to the cupboard, took out a two-thirds full loaf of white bread and jar of peanut butter. Setting it on the table with a couple of knives, she said, ‘I’m going to eat all of this, d’you want to help?’ I said sure, not like I had anything better to do, and we set to it.
Now, the peanut butter was smooth and I’m a crunchy guy, but it didn’t matter, not with the white bread, and I could still lick out the bits that stuck to my teeth. That was always my favourite part with peanut butter. It tasted sweet somehow. Time we finished, my ma had flakes of PB smeared around her lips.
She held my hand again and looked at me for what felt a lot longer than the few seconds it had been, then turned and looked out the kitchen window. The sun had started to set and hovered above the fields. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’ she said, before coughing. I agreed with her.
Things were good back then, I thought.
Conrad Gardner’s writing has previously been published by AutoFocus, Superlative, and AEL Press. He is based in Herefordshire, England.
