“I stole that locket from you,” he told his mother who was standing at the sink, washing the cups. He knew his mother would be affectionate and would smile at his confession of the innocent, little crimes of his childhood. Still, there was this faint, silent ghost of apprehension poking at his ease. Despite all the comfort of familial belonging, he was after all confessing theft.
“What locket?” The lady, busy in her work, didn’t look at him.
“It was a small, golden color, one with four blue crystals, all synthetic I suppose. Do you remember it? I took it from the main closet.” He looked at her, smiling.
“Oh well! You’ve often done far greater mischief than this!” She threw a brief glance at him. He knew she was bantering. Yet, he could not help noticing how she did not smile. He looked ahead and started to saunter, saying, “I shifted it deftly whenever you would have me for a change.”
“Hmm!” She still didn’t smile. “Such a cheater you are!”
“But I finally put it back. I don’t remember how long I kept it but I did put it back in the small box that contains your notions.” He turned back and came near her.
“Then it’s all right,” she said softly. He heaved a cool sigh. For days he had been anticipating this scene of confession. It was a smiling face, glistening with affection that welcomed him in the image. But that was all a reverie. He could not impart the anticipated degree of innocence and liveliness, and she didn’t welcome him as he had expected. Nevertheless, the confession went fairly well. He was happy now. He had finally made his confession, one speaking for that dark, servile, hidden, almost inaccessible. A bleak region of self that haunted the light by its shadow, to get known. So it was known now, but just by a tiny bit.
-------
Ernest Dempsey is the editor of the print quarterly The Audience Review (New York). He has authored four books so far and is completing is first novel. Dempsey is a lead writer/editor at the World Audience Publishers http://www.worldaudience.org/.
0 comments:
Post a Comment