Spitfire

Spitfire

I’m experiencing some kind of Jungian literary synchronicity. Although it’s been two years, Barbara is still grieving over her mother’s death. At the same time, she’s concerned over her own health issues and relates them to her father’s death, pointing out that he died younger. Says it’s in her genes.

“But your mother died at ninety-two.” I tell her. “You have half of her genes.”

“I’m not sure whose genes I’ve got.”

“Maybe both, I think it’s some of both.”

I’m trying to finish New and Collected Stories by Alan Sillitoe before it’s overdue at the library, and the last story is called Spitfire. It’s about a guy that’s grieving for his dead wife. I’ve been trying to finish it for a week.

“He heard you should be done grieving after a year, but he couldn’t eliminate the good times they’d had in their married life, nor the awful months of Edith’s dying either.’

There’s something unusual going on here. I remember reading Maupassant’s short story The Devil when Barb and I first met. Her mother was dying. Edythe and the character were both ninety-two. It was the coldest winter I’d ever known.

And last night, we were lying on the bed head-to-head sharing her Facebook, and when she passed a picture of a giant moth resting on a child’s hand, I remember asking her to scroll back so I could see it again. Now I read this:

“Sitting in the kitchen with the light on after dark, a moth came through the open window, did a dance around his large fist by the cup of coffee. When it settled he watched its whiskers, and brown swept-back wings, a sinister little bomber quite unlike the silver grace of the Spitfire, but he felt consoled by its company for a while until, not wanting to damage it, he cupped it in his hand, a fluttering against the flesh of his palm, and watched it fly away as he closed the window."

And flash. I also saw a picture of white roses just this morning and they were like the ones on Edythe’s grave.

I just finished reading the story and it’s become one of my Sillitoe favorites. Its last pages were turned while I sat in the easy chair next to the south east window. The light was soft and forgiving.

Across the bedroom, Barb is in bed, taking a nap before we leave for the neighborhood picnic with the entire family, including Ric, her ex. It’s a scene I prefer, quiet, filled with tranquility.

I remember when Ric and I first met; he told me Barb was like a guided missile. I’d never seen bitterness expressed with a smile.

Of course, it wasn’t true.

But she can be a Spitfire. And right now my Spitfire was purring.

©StevenHunley2016

Thank you Alan, and Rod.

https://youtu.be/jjKVBj0fmkg Mandolin Wind- Rod Stuart-Ron Wood

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Spitfire