A black horse and a cherry tree

Eye to the telescope / Kt Tunstall











Even as I followed my mother up the front steps, knowing it was inevitable, a part of my mind was trying to think of a way out of lunch. My stomach had betrayed me by growling earlier. The typical, “oh I’m not hungry,” was not going to work. The bitch of it was, I was hungry. Starving. Ravenous. Of course, I also know I eat under stress, so perhaps this was just the vicious cycle of home.

We fell quickly into our places in the tiny galley kitchen, staged so many rehearsals ago, our lines already memorized. She prepares at the counter; I lean in the doorway.

“If you ate better you’d be healthier. This is a dicon radish. Try it. Try it.” The slice and dice and feed began.


“The doctor says I’m healthy, Ma. I tried it last time.”

“Well, if you ate organic food you’d have more energy. This is an umanchie plum. Try it.”


“I’d have more energy if I didn’t work ten hour days. I tried it the time before last.”


“I wish you’d at least try my diet. You’d feel better and wouldn’t be sick all the time. This is a new kind of sea weed. I think you’ll like it. Try it.”


“I am not sick. I feel fine. This tastes like Boston harbor.”


“I really think if you ate healthier, you’d be thinner.” A clear attack, a lunge at a weak spot that has nothing to do with numbers on the scale. It was because of the harbor remark, no doubt. “Remind me when we’re done with lunch. I’ll write down the recipes. You'll be loosing that weight in no time!”


“Ok …" I answer rather than remind her that I weigh 115 lbs, perfectly fine for a 5 foot frame.


As she drones on, I gaze around for an escape that I know is not there. Eventually my eyes sink to the floor. The floor, typically the only uncluttered surface, where I can loose myself in beige waves of plush carpet to float in a rayon sea.


Today is garbage day, so I share the doorway with a plastic container waiting, no doubt for me to offer to remove it, which I am not going to do. Especially now after the weight crack. There is something on the wall, low, I almost don’t see it. No doubt a scrap of radish, bok choy or other vegetable that tried to flee her like I am.


I will throw it out, my contribution to housework. I know as soon as my finger touches soft flesh, I have not reached vegetable or mineral. I know before it coils into a round ball, we share life. If we’d not made first contact, I could have left it, clinging to the wall. But now it’s on the floor and I am not willing to share my safe space.


Balled up, its flesh becomes harder. I pick it up placing it into the garbage.


“Did you ever read Dune?” I ask, perhaps a subject change. I’m feeling benevolent. Have I not just saved the life of a wretched creature, scooping it to safety and depositing it in heaven?


“No. Try this sea cucumber. You know, if you stood up straighter, you’d look taller.”


I slump, wishing I could curl up on the floor like my refugee. “Yes… mm hmm… ok…” I drone on at her chatter. But my sea of safety has been invaded. While I pat my own intellectual back at the creature’s rescue, my own flesh tightens like I am being watched, not simply the crawling feeling... It's like I am not alone.


I don’t really see it like I’m looking, but like my vision is a camera’s. We scan slowly around the kitchen, the panning view prompting the audience, me, to wonder where our garbage can dwelling friend originated. Compelled to look up, the image moves slowly. The cameraman, my unconscious, clearly knows what is ahead.


“Ma…?” I stare at the ceiling. It appears textured. My mouth would be open in shock, if I didn’t fear gravity. I start to count…too many. Way too many.


“Ma, I think you’ve got a problem…”


My mother has reached the stir fry portion of her act. The timing must be perfect. I know. I’ve seen this act before. She glances at me for the briefest of seconds. I am fixated on the ceiling that now appears to shift itself before my eyes. I wonder if I look as “horror stricken” as I feel and make a mental note to never doubt that phrase again.


“Oh? Yeah. I have a moth problem. A couple came in the other night, I couldn’t catch them.”


“Uh… No…No…” I stammer, part of me is calmly thinking: so this is hell, it’s not so bad. “It’s… It’s more like…like…” say it “like…” say it “Um…” I can’t say it. ”Like ‘pre-moths’” I breath again. If it’s not named it doesn’t exist.


“Oh?” For the first time my mother follows my gaze to glance above her head. “Oh.” She says a bit surprised. “My. I guess I will need to call somebody about that.” Just as quickly she has glanced back down and continues to dump more bowls of slice and dice into the sizzling pan. I know this is the finale of the act. I know what is coming and try to assess the heat of the pan.


“Ready to eat?” She asks lifting the pan off the stove. She stands in the middle of the kitchen. The ceiling shifts above her. She smiles.


This is the moment we see from what the heroine is made. Does she laugh hysterically, allowing insanity to possess her? Does she run screaming, although knowing that the demons will continue to follow her, presenting even larger challenges? Oh to be the kind of woman who faints. But I am not.


“Ok…sure.” I say and take my seat at the table, and finish my plate.