Our Own Kind of Sickness

图片取自 River City Reading

  For a long time, the four of us sat in the living room in the kind of brittle silence I'd only ever felt in churches and libraries. The kind everyone is careful not to break. We watched Toby's chest rise and fall, rise and fall, the only proof that he was still with us.

  I saw my mother who stood first. She walked across the room, knelt on the floor nest to Toby, and laid her open palm on his head. I watched as she ran her hand over his soft feathery hair, and even though her back was to me, I think I heard her say, "Sorry." I want to believe that's what I heard. I needed to know that my mother understood that her hand was in this too. That all the jealousy and envy and shame we carried was our own kind of sickness. As much a disease as Toby and Finn's AIDS.

  In the end it was just the two of us in the room. My mother and me. Toby's body stilled, and she reached out and laid her hand on my shoulder. That was how one person's story ended.

Tell the Wolves I'm Home, P348-349
Carol Rifka Brunt
ISBN 978-0-679-64419-4

Mak Xiao Wei(2014.05.04)>>[当周脸书帖子]>>




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