A child frightened by something

Some mornings didn’t turn out as Agnes expected.

She tapped out the Mozart variations on her little piano when the chaplain from the Pennsylvania Hospital left. But she turned to look at Mama, whose back was to her – and she saw the shaking shoulders, her stooped head.

Mama came into the room, didn’t say a word, collapsed into the chair, a phlegmy mass in her loose robe, wild hair flowing down her back, eyeglasses askew, sniffling nose, red-rimmed eyes. Agnes stopped playing – and the room became silent except for Mama’s crying, blowing her nose, and alto moans.

Agnes went over to her mother and lay her head in Mama’s lap. She smelled the salty, pungent flavor coming from the handkerchief, could feel the shaking of Mama’s shoulders. She looked up – Mama’s chin, nose, and hair eclipsed the crystal chandelier overhead, and her head appeared shrouded in black darkness to Agnes.

The room closed in on Agnes and she felt very small, smaller than her eight years. She wanted to go back to the piano, but Mama clutched her tightly.