Maria
Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
“Take me to the graveyard.” She wheezes the words through her too small mouth. Her voice is decades old newspaper, her face isn’t much better. She’s old. I comply with her wishes, and I pull out of the driveway to head to the cemetery on the outskirts of town. She wears too large shades, probably a relic from the 50s or something. I drive her in the mornings and the evenings. This is our routine: on the weekdays, I take her to Wal-Mart, where she greets shoppers.
“They put me in the front, in case I die,” she told me. “They don’t want us deeper in the store. Imagine the commotion it would cause if you had paramedics combing the store for a body. Not good for business.” Weekends, I take her to the park. She hobbles out to a bench, her back like a question mark, and she sits in her bench. When I leave her, she has week old Italian bread that she feeds squirrels and birds. When I pick her up in the evening, she’s asleep, pigeons picking at her ears. She must be tasty. I shoo them off, and take her home. Today, is an exception. The graveyard.
“Do you know Mary?” she asks me. I shake my head.
“The one in the Bible? Jesus’ mother? I think about her often.” She takes her hand off of the window and a ghostly imprint remains. It evaporates like a spirit.
“The Bible tells me that it was an emaculate conception, but I always thought that God had sex with her. Imagine, how that would have felt. Probably the best sex that she’d ever had. It’s no wonder she never slept with Joseph after that. Nothing could compare.” We drive in silence for a bit.
“I wonder if she ever tried to re-create it? Back then, they had more gods that we do now. Maybe she went to the old temples, asking the other gods for the experience. Like Leeda being fucked by Zeus as a swan. Yeats wrote a poem about that, I think.” We arrive at the cemetery. I stop and open the door for her.
“Walk with me.” It’s cold outside. It just finished snowing and the ground looks like sketch paper, new. I hate to walk on fresh snow, hating to spoil it with my brown slushy footprints. She doesn’t however, and pulls me to a large statue of an angel, it’s hands folded in prayer. The angel is pristine, with the exception of a small pencil markings on its lips. Lipstick like a geisha.
“My son the Son of God too, you know? He didn’t cause the second coming, or nothing. He lives on welfare. Thought that he’d end up a doctor, or something, with Holy Blood in his veins, or what not. He’s drunk most of the time, turning water into cheap wine. What a disappointment.” She takes off her glasses and I see that she has no eyes. Hallow caves. Miniature bats could live there. She tongue kisses the angel. Her salvia freezes on contact.
“Take me home,” she tells it. She begins to cry tears of blood. They fall into the snow, and become rubies. “The world is so sick and so am I. Take me home.” The angel embraces her, holding her until her sobs stop. I make smoke “o”s with my breathe and watch as the angel picks her off and they fly into the heavens. The snow picks up again and buries our tracks. I stand there, waiting.
“Take me to the graveyard.” She wheezes the words through her too small mouth. Her voice is decades old newspaper, her face isn’t much better. She’s old. I comply with her wishes, and I pull out of the driveway to head to the cemetery on the outskirts of town. She wears too large shades, probably a relic from the 50s or something. I drive her in the mornings and the evenings. This is our routine: on the weekdays, I take her to Wal-Mart, where she greets shoppers.
“They put me in the front, in case I die,” she told me. “They don’t want us deeper in the store. Imagine the commotion it would cause if you had paramedics combing the store for a body. Not good for business.” Weekends, I take her to the park. She hobbles out to a bench, her back like a question mark, and she sits in her bench. When I leave her, she has week old Italian bread that she feeds squirrels and birds. When I pick her up in the evening, she’s asleep, pigeons picking at her ears. She must be tasty. I shoo them off, and take her home. Today, is an exception. The graveyard.
“Do you know Mary?” she asks me. I shake my head.
“The one in the Bible? Jesus’ mother? I think about her often.” She takes her hand off of the window and a ghostly imprint remains. It evaporates like a spirit.
“The Bible tells me that it was an emaculate conception, but I always thought that God had sex with her. Imagine, how that would have felt. Probably the best sex that she’d ever had. It’s no wonder she never slept with Joseph after that. Nothing could compare.” We drive in silence for a bit.
“I wonder if she ever tried to re-create it? Back then, they had more gods that we do now. Maybe she went to the old temples, asking the other gods for the experience. Like Leeda being fucked by Zeus as a swan. Yeats wrote a poem about that, I think.” We arrive at the cemetery. I stop and open the door for her.
“Walk with me.” It’s cold outside. It just finished snowing and the ground looks like sketch paper, new. I hate to walk on fresh snow, hating to spoil it with my brown slushy footprints. She doesn’t however, and pulls me to a large statue of an angel, it’s hands folded in prayer. The angel is pristine, with the exception of a small pencil markings on its lips. Lipstick like a geisha.
“My son the Son of God too, you know? He didn’t cause the second coming, or nothing. He lives on welfare. Thought that he’d end up a doctor, or something, with Holy Blood in his veins, or what not. He’s drunk most of the time, turning water into cheap wine. What a disappointment.” She takes off her glasses and I see that she has no eyes. Hallow caves. Miniature bats could live there. She tongue kisses the angel. Her salvia freezes on contact.
“Take me home,” she tells it. She begins to cry tears of blood. They fall into the snow, and become rubies. “The world is so sick and so am I. Take me home.” The angel embraces her, holding her until her sobs stop. I make smoke “o”s with my breathe and watch as the angel picks her off and they fly into the heavens. The snow picks up again and buries our tracks. I stand there, waiting.
posted by Rob at 1:25 p.m.
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