Welcome to The Spot
Writers. The September prompt is to use
these five words in a writing: carrot, lily, moustache, esophagus, pigeon.
This week’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s
novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, is available from her locally or on Amazon,
to great reviews.
***
Pigeon Phobia
by Cathy MacKenzie
The final time I visited Granny in her fourth-floor
condo, I was ten. I didn’t know exactly how old she was then, but the brown
spots on her hands, her stooped shoulders, and her grey, frizzy hair showed her
years. For as long as I could remember, she sported a bit of a moustache, and
the stubby hairs rubbed against my face whenever she kissed me.
She used to stand by the sliding door that
opened onto the balcony and talk to Stella. “I see you, Stell,” and “What are
you doing, Stell?” were her usual questions. No one answered, of course.
I had never seen Stella standing on Granny’s
balcony, never even met her as I far as I knew, nor did I know why Granny talked
to this mysterious, invisible woman several times a day.
The pigeons were in full force, though, swooping
down to the balcony. They pooped on the wicker furniture, on the side tables,
and on the railing. I swear those beady eyes looked right into the living room.
I eyed their scruffy feathers and scrawny beaks. So close, I could touch them.
One day, Granny stomped from the living room and
into the kitchen, yanked open the fridge, and pulled out a bag of carrots. I sensed
what was coming and moved out of her way.
Yep, she hurled those carrots, one by one, with
strength a frail, elderly woman didn’t normally possess. “Get away, you dratted
creatures,” she shrieked.
As hard as she threw, though, she didn’t hit
any.
She gasped after yelling at the birds and
covered her mouth. “Stell, I’m so sorry if I disturbed you. Go back to sleep.”
She turned from the door, and a sad face overtook
her surprise at seeing me. “Sorry, Carmen. It’s those damned pigeons. How I
hate them.”
“Can we go out to sit, Granny?”
“No, we cannot. Not with those dratted pigeons
ruining everything. Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow we’ll go out.”
I was at Granny’s condo for six days that last
time, but “tomorrow” never came. The pigeons continued their tirade, almost
taunting her. She wouldn’t go outside with them perching on the railing as if
they owned her balcony. “I dare you,” they seemed to say. “I dare you.”
I would have yelled “double dare” back, but that
would have given the pigeons the attention they craved, and Granny wouldn’t
have liked that.
Visits with Granny are as fresh in my mind as if
they happened yesterday, but many years have passed. The pigeons aren’t as bad
as they once were. Maybe they were never that
bad. When one lights on the balcony, I shoo it away.
I hate the sunlight as much as Granny hated the
pigeons. The afternoon glare hits the sliding door most days and highlights my
age spots, similar to those that lined Granny’s hands and arms.
I have no grandchildren. No husband. No
siblings.
But I have my memories.
I cough, remembering how Granny wheezed and hacked
every few minutes. I had always thought her coughing a nervous habit, but she
suffered bouts of heartburn and inflammation of the esophagus, so perhaps not.
I peer down from the fourth floor balcony. I can
just barely see Granny’s headstone. “Hush now, Granny, the pigeons won’t hurt
you anymore.” I cover my mouth and giggle. “Oh, Stell, I hope I didn’t wake
you.”
If I lean over far enough, I can see Stella’s
headstone.
Yesterday I visited Granny and left an orange
lily, her favourite flower. I stopped by to visit Stell, too.
Strands of shoulder-length grey hair whip across
my face. The wind whispers. Or is it Granny?
“Hush, Granny. Sleep tight.”
***
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/
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