AND we have short fiction!
a post by Della Marinis -- originally from Fürst Told Blog, February 17, 2011
Last night I had ghosts as dinner guests. Friends and family who paid the courtesy of a visit though I hadn’t seen them in a very long while – the last time only within a dusty frame or from my memory as a small child. Some had lived and died before I was born, so I was frankly surprised to see them at all.
This February recalls all the Februaries that came before – dim, drizzly or bright with vague temperatures that hardly kindle an emotion. Sometimes the sturdy breeze brings a hint of spring or promise of storm but mostly, it lingers between worlds.
It was for this reason I began with soup – a deep green pea that I hoped might appeal to both a winter and springtime palate.
Still, Enid puckered her lips at the first spoonful.
“Is it endive?” she asked.
“No, no, no my dear,” whispered Gerald beside her, adjusting his monocle. “A velouté d’épinards, certainly.”
“I do find it tastes something like blackberry,” piped cousin Minerva from across the table.
Her hollow cheek was a downy shade of grey even in the lamplight.
I wondered if my guests were capable of tasting at all and sat silently as the conversation ran to other nonsense, from the peculiar pattern of my violet drapes (which do not exist) to the French ancestors once inhabiting the house.
“What year was that, exactly?” I plied cautiously, with a glimpse at Great Aunt Bertha’s bloodless lips.
She turned her eyes up at the ceiling in a moment of grave thought.
“Why, 15…1585 it must have been,” she wheezed, fixing one unnerving eye on me and adding defiantly, “we were quite a formidable family then, you know.”
“Our house is only a hundred years old,” I protested but the subject had already changed – along with the food, for at once steaming bowls of fish
stew flecked with parsley appeared before us. The ghosts heartily dug in.
Soon, long gowns swept the flagstones, men smoked cigars and a dog fell asleep by the fire. Someone gestured toward the portrait of Miss Mary above the mantle and like a distant dream I heard sighs, snickers and all the usual ebb and flow of a dinner party that was winding down.
When the guests had gone I chose to just ignore the scatter of cups and plates, hoping they’d disappear as mysteriously as they came and made my way up the stairs.
I could hear the rain tapping softly at the windows followed by quiet and then back again, something in the way of ghosts caught between worlds.
This, as all Februaries I have known won’t be remembered, though it will likely remember me just the same.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
© Della D. Marinis, 2009-2011
Della Marinis is my tremendous Berlin dwelling cousin. She writes young
adult fiction, has been a teacher, a toiler in the HR fields, has two
amazing kids, a magnificent husband (Martin) -- all that and she's 9 kinds of wise and funny besides.
a post by Della Marinis -- originally from Fürst Told Blog, February 17, 2011
This February recalls all the Februaries that came before – dim, drizzly or bright with vague temperatures that hardly kindle an emotion. Sometimes the sturdy breeze brings a hint of spring or promise of storm but mostly, it lingers between worlds.
It was for this reason I began with soup – a deep green pea that I hoped might appeal to both a winter and springtime palate.Still, Enid puckered her lips at the first spoonful.
“Is it endive?” she asked.
“No, no, no my dear,” whispered Gerald beside her, adjusting his monocle. “A velouté d’épinards, certainly.”
“I do find it tastes something like blackberry,” piped cousin Minerva from across the table.
Her hollow cheek was a downy shade of grey even in the lamplight.
I wondered if my guests were capable of tasting at all and sat silently as the conversation ran to other nonsense, from the peculiar pattern of my violet drapes (which do not exist) to the French ancestors once inhabiting the house.
“What year was that, exactly?” I plied cautiously, with a glimpse at Great Aunt Bertha’s bloodless lips.
She turned her eyes up at the ceiling in a moment of grave thought.
“Why, 15…1585 it must have been,” she wheezed, fixing one unnerving eye on me and adding defiantly, “we were quite a formidable family then, you know.”
“Our house is only a hundred years old,” I protested but the subject had already changed – along with the food, for at once steaming bowls of fish
stew flecked with parsley appeared before us. The ghosts heartily dug in.Soon, long gowns swept the flagstones, men smoked cigars and a dog fell asleep by the fire. Someone gestured toward the portrait of Miss Mary above the mantle and like a distant dream I heard sighs, snickers and all the usual ebb and flow of a dinner party that was winding down.
When the guests had gone I chose to just ignore the scatter of cups and plates, hoping they’d disappear as mysteriously as they came and made my way up the stairs.
I could hear the rain tapping softly at the windows followed by quiet and then back again, something in the way of ghosts caught between worlds.
This, as all Februaries I have known won’t be remembered, though it will likely remember me just the same.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
© Della D. Marinis, 2009-2011
Della Marinis is my tremendous Berlin dwelling cousin. She writes young
adult fiction, has been a teacher, a toiler in the HR fields, has two
amazing kids, a magnificent husband (Martin) -- all that and she's 9 kinds of wise and funny besides. 
No comments:
Post a Comment