BURN (Wattys2015?)

potatoes

Her shriveled hands, worn by time and labor, dug into the soft black earth. The sun beat down on her frail shoulders, her leathery skin.
I watched from the window, small and afraid. I didn't know what to make of the old woman. Her gray hair was brittle like the rest of her, yet her eyes were an icy blue, cold and unforgiving. She pierced my childhood mind with those eyes. They were alien from the rest of her, they were too sharp and fierce.
I suppose she scared me the most because I knew she was dying. Cancer, they said.
My mother forced me to go visit the old woman, said it would be good for the both of us. I think she just wanted to be alone for a bit. She didn't want me to hear her quietly crying on his bed, under the comfort of his blanket. She wanted to mourn, rightfully so, and she didn't want me around. I understood that, even if I was just a kid.
I peeked through the yellowed lace curtains, watching the widow work. She had just lost someone, too. Her son. Ironic that she'd lose her son just before she died herself. No one should deal with the grief of losing a child, especially before they die them self.
"The world does not love us, fate is not kind."
The widow suddenly straightened, placing her bony hands on the small of her creaking back, sighing. She had a basket full of potatoes now, and she wiped her soiled hands on her apron. She picked up the basket and fear rose in my skinny chest, because she was fixing to invade my sanctuary. She was coming inside.
I shuffles backwards, moving behind the thick velvet curtain on the other window. There were cobwebs catching in my hair, and I flicked a spider off my shoulder.
I heard the doorknob jiggle, and I held my breath. She entered, wiping her shoes on on the mat and slipping out of them, her bare feet clicking on the wooden floors.
I heard her set the basket down, and turn on the faucet to rinse the potatoes.
I could the cool air on my skin. I wasn't hidden well enough.
I backed up, stumbling deeper into the mass of curtains and rugs. Why would someone keep so many rugs and blankets and curtains and such hanging up like this?
My back slammed into something, a bookshelf. A shower of dust and memories rose up like a cloud before descending on me.
I sneezed.
The faucet turned off, and slow footsteps crept close.
I could smell her. She smelled like earth and lavender, and like old people. Like mold and mildew and dust. But she also smelled like gingerbread cookies and Christmas and fire.
And then I was out, forced into the light and cold. I blinked hard, a steel hand gripping the collar of my shirt.
"What are you doing back there, boy? Come." Her gaze stabbed into my brain, and I closed my eyes, trying to unsee hers.
She drug me into the kitchen, and plopped me on a stool at the counter.
"Peel." She commanded. She set a damp towel in front of me, and dumped some freshly scrubbed potatoes on it.
A knife found it's way in my hand, and I started to peel the potatoes.
She sat down beside me with a grunt, and started to peel some herself. She moved swiftly, deftly working the knife in a circular motion around the potato. The skin came off in perfect ringlets.
I tried to imitate her, but she had years of experience on me.
Frustrated, I pressed too hard and cut straight through the potato, slicing my hand. I screamed and threw the potato at the wall.
"I hate potatoes!" I cried, hot tears running down my tired face. "I...hate...hate...potatoes." I sobbed, flailing my arms and chucking potatoes everywhere.
Strong, skinny arms wrapped around me, pinning my anger down. I struggled for a moment, but a tender voice broke through my blind rage.
"What did the potatoes ever do to you, eh? What did they do? They didn't ask to be planted, but I planted them. They didn't ask to be ripped from their safe home in the ground, tossed into a basket and then peeled of their skin. The earth gave them up for one purpose, to be eaten. Why do you disrespect the potatoes like that, eh? Why disrespect the earth?"
"He...potatoes...he loved potatoes." I couldn't stop crying. My boyish pride was wounded, I didn't want a girl (even an old one) to see me emotionally bare and naked like that.
She let me cry into her dying chest, and even if she was just a wrinkled bag of bones, I felt safe.
Her voice breaks the silence, her words final.
"My son loved potatoes, too. But just because he's dead doesn't mean I can't eat the potatoes."
When we separate, I look up to see her wiping a tear from her face. Her Russian determination is back, and she thrusts a broom at me.
"Now, clean up." She bustles about, picking up chunks of scattered potato.
I start to sweep, and I don't feel so afraid anymore. I feel safe.