Steve Meador is the author of Throwing Percy from the Cherry Tree, a poetry book that was an entrant for a National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize in poetry. He is widely published in online and print journals. He has been a real estate broker since the early 1980s and currently lives and practices in the Tampa, FL, area.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Sometimes things have to take a silly turn.

Scene: any home in the world where there are sensible, caring parents and a fourteen year old child.

Mother:  I want you to stop writing that silly twaddle, that poetry.

Daughter:  No, mother, I will not.  It frees me. It delights my soul and sets angels flying and flitting about me in a frenzy of happiness. (She slaps the back of her hand against her forehead and pretends as if she is going to faint. The motion makes a sound akin to a quarter of beef being dropped on a concrete floor.)

Mother:  I shant allow it! It is of no value. There is no future in it, where income and status are concerned. It will lead you to being a motley beggar on the steet. (She turns her back to her daughter and faces a fake fireplace, staring at the photo of her own father, a former trapeze artist.)

Daughter:  I don’t care about money, mother. I do it because I MUST! If I cannot write I shall explode. My head will fill with angst and depression and blow like Vesuvius. Is that what you want mother? Do you want to come into my room and see my brains flowing over the Persian rug like river of lava? (She rushes at her mother, fingers wiggling around her head.)

Mother:  Your father and I have made a final decision and there is to be no more of the silly verse. Besides, if you fear for your sanity we can have you visit Drs. Rolls and Royce.  If that fails, then you shall see Drs. Smith and Wesson. Now go to your room. (Mother turns and faces daughter, hands on hips, face taut.)

Daughter:   Fine. I hate you! I hate both of you! I will do as you say and go to my room, but first I must go to the garden shed and get a pansy for my window sill. (She runs toward the door, a devious scowl across her face.)

Mother:  (She follows daughter to door and calls for the maid.) Alice!

Alice:  Yes madame. (Enters, holding a feather duster.)

Mother:  Would you ring Mr. Borden at the office? Tell him I am having trouble with Lizzie again.

Alice:  Will there be anything else madame?

Mother:  Please tell Henry that I will have the peanut butter and tuna sandwich for lunch. For beverage I will have my special tonic, on the rocks.

Alice:  Yes, madame. Would you like him to serve it in the parlor? (Bowing slightly and backing out of the doorway.)

Mother:  No, I shall take it in my bedroom. And Alice, make sure Lizzie goes directly to her room, once she returns from the garden shed. And please make sure there is no loose dirt on that dreaded pansy.  (Leaves the room and starts up the staircase.)

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