Mommy had just put a pot of eggs in the stove. I wanted the hard-boiled eggs. I did not know how to get the eggs. Eggs. In a miniature ecosystem, the condensation gathered on the stove light and cycled with the boiling water. I pointed to the pot, frowning, "Oggs."
Mommy nodded and smiled, "Eggs?" She took my hand, "could you say 'eggs' for Mommy?"
My brow furrowed, "O-ggs."
"Aye-gs?"
"O-ggs."
She laughed and toussled my hair. Then she stood up and walked out of the kitchen.
The towel hanging on the oven handle was enticing. Perhaps I could use it as a rope and climb up it? My small, tubby hand reached out toward the hand towel and grabbed it. As I squatted to test the durability, it fell, and I fell on my butt.
Truck. Red truck. I saw it in the dining room. That would work. I waddled into the conjoined room, and, upon sitting next to the truck, I completely forgot what I was doing. I rolled it back and forth in joy. I blew my lips to imitate car sounds. I know they're not the same, but nobody cares at that age. Mommy walked past me to check on the eggs. She came back a short while later, so I could assume that they weren't done.
Eggs.
She put a CD into our radio sitting in the corner of the living room, and went back into the other room.
Eggs.
I pushed the toy truck into the kitchen and attempted to keep it from rolling away. My feet went into the bed of the truck, and my hands on the oven handle.
EGGS.
I went up on my toes as my pudgy fingers wrapped around the pot handle.
EGGS.
The truck slipped.
The pot hit me over the head.
Hot water spilt all over me.
And the music continued to blast.
YOU ARE READING
Patchwork Souls
Short StoryAt first, the names mattered. They really did. And eventually it became more of a numb, "huh", and each individual lost their name as it was given to them. I try to make the names matter. To give up this silence that separated the void between exist...
