When Mother and I heard
the tapping on the kitchen door,
we knew it was time to accompany
Violet to the asylum. Mother
turned off the gas under the cast
iron skillet, while I stood
there and watched the yellow
slabs of corn meal
floating in the bubbly grease,
wishing I didn't have to go along.
Within minutes, we arrived at the
gate, the guard peered into the
back seat and called Violet's
name. She handed him the worn shoe
box and pursed her lips while he
lifted the lid, picking up each
large ball of green string.
There were three of them.
Somehow, she knew he would keep
the box, even though it meant
nothing to him but to her it
meant all the days she'd roamed
the city streets, and the final
stop being at Rhea's bakery for
six raisin cookies,
always mesmerized
by the clerk wrapping the green
string, round and round the box
and finally tying it
into a tiny knot.
-- Martha Charlier Eckel
First Published: April 20, 2007, 10:45 p.m.