Cynthia
By Peter LaBerge
He told her that her son wasn’t coming back as she rested in her old, rickety rocking chair. Her body was too fraught with exhaustion to react to the death that she had already predicted. She always knew the boy would die, since of course it’s only natural, but never in her life did she think it would be so tantalizingly tragic. So all that old Señora Cynthia Tavoré could manage to do was let her mahogany-flecked eyes flutter downwards and whisper a gasp that sheltered her concealed horror from birth into the world (and therefore eventual death). Her husband, the baker, watched his old wife’s tired body internally crumple through his gold-rimmed spectacles as he spoke the last of his carefully picked words: “He’ll always be in our hearts, mi princesa.” He sighed, the exhaled air tickling his salty, rapidly graying moustache that nestled itself between his nose and his upper lip. “You need sleep,” he said to the poor old woman. “I don’t have enough strength to drift away,” the old woman responded, accompanied by the flicking of a particularly stubborn teardrop that had embedded itself in between two of her soggy eyelashes. “Mi amor, this won’t bring him back. Please, por favor, let me take you to your bed.” And the poor Señora agreed, clutching the arms of her beloved rocking chair with shaking hands as she collected enough strength to tenderly raise herself out of her chair. Señor Victor Tavoré, the good baker, slid his arm around her cold-to-the-touch figure and slowly guided his grieving wife to her bed, one tear at a time.
“Perhaps you’ll feel better after you have some tea,” the good baker said to his wife, fluffing the bed sheets for her as if it were any other Monday night. The good Señora stood facing the window (the one with the yellowing, warped glass) and gazed quietly out at the sea, watching the waves clash against the ivory sand and then seceded back into the large body of salty water. “Cynthia, mi princesa bonita, come and sleep now. I will make you some tea and crackers; perhaps then you will feel better.” And the good baker led his poor wife to her bedside and fumbled with the sheets until she was comfortable. “Good night, mi amor,” said the baker and lightly kissed his tired wife’s cheek. He turned around and left the good Señora Cynthia Tavoré to herself. The tired Señora dreamt about her deceased son, the one she reared and created in the very same bed so many years earlier. She dreamt a rather calm dream, considering the grief that usurped her frail, bony body; in the company of her son, she visited a sunflower field and danced to the beat of the galloping rain, as she once had many years before. When she awoke, she aroused herself and shuffled over to the window with yellowish, warped glass, and stared at the familiar horizon. It was at this moment that she realized reality was staring back at her, and that she the sunflower field, and therefore her son, were merely part of a dream. Her streaked, glossy reflection focused intently on her mahogany-flecked eyes and the tears that were diluted over the various pronounced features of her face and neck. The poor Señora roamed through the house she once knew so well, and ambled into the kitchen. Her good husband, the devoted baker, waited with a welcoming smile; “Good morning, mi amor, I am very happy that you slept. I hope that you are feeling better,” he said, the apparent bags under his eyes stretching down his face like purplish balloon animals.
“Ah sí, I wish I was, but the only way to feel better is to forget. I will not forget our son, Victor,” his poor wife heaved a heavy sigh that had been building up in her throat overnight. “I would never ask you to forget your past. I know how important it is to you,” the good baker answered. His unfortunate wife left her devoted husband’s response unanswered and meandered to the breakfast table to peel a rather overripe orange. “Let me, por favor, mi princesa,” the good baker said, taking the orange from her wrinkly palms. “Gracias, my love,” said his poor wife, and took a bite of the orange, immediately grimacing. “This taste is sour. It is not how I remembered it,” the poor Señora said, spitting out the half-chewed bits of orange into a napkin, which her devoted husband supplied. “Mi amor, as long as you remember me, I don’t mind your parting with bits of the past,” replied the good baker. “I cannot part with the past, without also parting with the future,” she said, “I think I need to sleep, mi principe.” And with that, the poor Señora vanished up the feeble stairs and back to her bedside, this time on her own.
When she awoke, the poor Señora knew that something was wrong. Perhaps it was the evergreens striking against the yellowing, warped window; or maybe it was the unusual whistling of the two canary birds fluttering around the tomato plants. She arose and slid the glistening robe around her shoulders, as she trudged down to the kitchen. She found her son on the floor. His heart leapt from his chest and flopped about back and forth, waving at her. The poor, unfortunate Señora, so shocked that she could not produce a sound, finally spoke to the heart: “Son, mi hijo, is it you?”
- - -
Peter LaBerge is a sixteen-year-old high school student. Though he is somewhat new to writing, his writing has found publication in eight literary magazines, and his photography has found publication in three. His interests, outside of writing and photography, include music and theater.
By Peter LaBerge
He told her that her son wasn’t coming back as she rested in her old, rickety rocking chair. Her body was too fraught with exhaustion to react to the death that she had already predicted. She always knew the boy would die, since of course it’s only natural, but never in her life did she think it would be so tantalizingly tragic. So all that old Señora Cynthia Tavoré could manage to do was let her mahogany-flecked eyes flutter downwards and whisper a gasp that sheltered her concealed horror from birth into the world (and therefore eventual death). Her husband, the baker, watched his old wife’s tired body internally crumple through his gold-rimmed spectacles as he spoke the last of his carefully picked words: “He’ll always be in our hearts, mi princesa.” He sighed, the exhaled air tickling his salty, rapidly graying moustache that nestled itself between his nose and his upper lip. “You need sleep,” he said to the poor old woman. “I don’t have enough strength to drift away,” the old woman responded, accompanied by the flicking of a particularly stubborn teardrop that had embedded itself in between two of her soggy eyelashes. “Mi amor, this won’t bring him back. Please, por favor, let me take you to your bed.” And the poor Señora agreed, clutching the arms of her beloved rocking chair with shaking hands as she collected enough strength to tenderly raise herself out of her chair. Señor Victor Tavoré, the good baker, slid his arm around her cold-to-the-touch figure and slowly guided his grieving wife to her bed, one tear at a time.
“Perhaps you’ll feel better after you have some tea,” the good baker said to his wife, fluffing the bed sheets for her as if it were any other Monday night. The good Señora stood facing the window (the one with the yellowing, warped glass) and gazed quietly out at the sea, watching the waves clash against the ivory sand and then seceded back into the large body of salty water. “Cynthia, mi princesa bonita, come and sleep now. I will make you some tea and crackers; perhaps then you will feel better.” And the good baker led his poor wife to her bedside and fumbled with the sheets until she was comfortable. “Good night, mi amor,” said the baker and lightly kissed his tired wife’s cheek. He turned around and left the good Señora Cynthia Tavoré to herself. The tired Señora dreamt about her deceased son, the one she reared and created in the very same bed so many years earlier. She dreamt a rather calm dream, considering the grief that usurped her frail, bony body; in the company of her son, she visited a sunflower field and danced to the beat of the galloping rain, as she once had many years before. When she awoke, she aroused herself and shuffled over to the window with yellowish, warped glass, and stared at the familiar horizon. It was at this moment that she realized reality was staring back at her, and that she the sunflower field, and therefore her son, were merely part of a dream. Her streaked, glossy reflection focused intently on her mahogany-flecked eyes and the tears that were diluted over the various pronounced features of her face and neck. The poor Señora roamed through the house she once knew so well, and ambled into the kitchen. Her good husband, the devoted baker, waited with a welcoming smile; “Good morning, mi amor, I am very happy that you slept. I hope that you are feeling better,” he said, the apparent bags under his eyes stretching down his face like purplish balloon animals.
“Ah sí, I wish I was, but the only way to feel better is to forget. I will not forget our son, Victor,” his poor wife heaved a heavy sigh that had been building up in her throat overnight. “I would never ask you to forget your past. I know how important it is to you,” the good baker answered. His unfortunate wife left her devoted husband’s response unanswered and meandered to the breakfast table to peel a rather overripe orange. “Let me, por favor, mi princesa,” the good baker said, taking the orange from her wrinkly palms. “Gracias, my love,” said his poor wife, and took a bite of the orange, immediately grimacing. “This taste is sour. It is not how I remembered it,” the poor Señora said, spitting out the half-chewed bits of orange into a napkin, which her devoted husband supplied. “Mi amor, as long as you remember me, I don’t mind your parting with bits of the past,” replied the good baker. “I cannot part with the past, without also parting with the future,” she said, “I think I need to sleep, mi principe.” And with that, the poor Señora vanished up the feeble stairs and back to her bedside, this time on her own.
When she awoke, the poor Señora knew that something was wrong. Perhaps it was the evergreens striking against the yellowing, warped window; or maybe it was the unusual whistling of the two canary birds fluttering around the tomato plants. She arose and slid the glistening robe around her shoulders, as she trudged down to the kitchen. She found her son on the floor. His heart leapt from his chest and flopped about back and forth, waving at her. The poor, unfortunate Señora, so shocked that she could not produce a sound, finally spoke to the heart: “Son, mi hijo, is it you?”
- - -
Peter LaBerge is a sixteen-year-old high school student. Though he is somewhat new to writing, his writing has found publication in eight literary magazines, and his photography has found publication in three. His interests, outside of writing and photography, include music and theater.
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