Honey (Shooting Stars 4)

nonsense," Grandad proclaimed, and left the room. The upshot was that Uncle Simon was still not welcome on a continual basis. and I was still bringing him his hot food.

I didn't mind doing it, especially after Uncle Peter's death. I. like Daddy, wanted to do what I could to keep the wolf of loneliness away from Uncle Simon's door. The little bit of mirth we had in our lives was gone for him as much as it was for me. I thought.

Most of the time he was waiting for me at the barn door, but occasionally, I brought it up to his makeshift living quarters, furnished with an old, light maplewood table with only two chairs, a bed, and a dresser. Grandad had wired the room so Uncle Simon had a standing lamp and a table lamp. There was a rug Mommy had given him and a pretty worn easy chair, its arms torn in places.

I know it embarrassed him to have me come up the stairs with his food. He'd hurry to stop me at the door, if he could. I offered to sit with him while he ate, but he always told me no. I'd better get back and help my mother or practice my violin.

"Don't know why you send the child over there anyway," Grandad would tell Mommy. "Just leave it on the porch and let him come fetch it. He'll turn her stomach with his pigsty ways."

"Put it out like food for a dog, Grandad? Is that a Christian way to treat so hard a working man?"

Grandad pretended he didn't hear her.

I never paid all that much attention to what Uncle Simon smelled like anyway. All of the odors on the farm seemed to comingle. Mommy practically bathed herself in her cologne before she went shopping with Daddy, and she bathed twice a day. despite Grandad Forman's groaning about wasted water.

"This farm has submersible wells," he lectured. "They could run bone-dry on us one day. Waste not, want not."

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness," Mommy fired back at him. Their duels using biblical quotes, quotes from psalms as swords, were sometimes amusing to watch.. I knew Mommy enjoyed beating him at his own game. She was always telling him to do unto others as he would have others do unto him. His retort was something like. "That's what I'd expect them to do to me and they're right to do it. Don't forget, an eye for an eye."

To which Mommy would shake her head and say, And soon we'll all be blind."

Grandad would wave his hand as if he was chasing away gnats and walk off, his head down, his long arms swinging in rhythm to his plodding gait.

When did he ever laugh? When did he ever feel happy or good about himself? Why was he so worried about sinning and going to hell?

Maybe he thought he was already in hell. It wasn't to be very long before I would understand why..

3 Tears on My Pillow

Uncle Peter's death remained vivid and depressing, a burden I could not easily unload. Sometimes, I would just stop doing my homework and start crying. Sometimes. I woke up in the middle of the night and pressed my face to my pillow to stifle the tears. My throat ached from holding down my grief. No matter how clear the day, how blue the skv, it looked gray and overcast to me. I spent my free time walking alone, my hands in the pockets of my jeans, my head down. It was even difficult to play the violin, because when I did, it made me think of him and I made mistakes. Mr. Wengow abruptly ended my first lesson after Uncle Peter's death and told me I was just not ready to return to my daily life. He was sympathetic and told me grief, especially grief over someone very dear to you, becomes a part of who and what you are and is not easily put aside.

"Give yourself a little more time," he advised. I didn't want him to leave. I was caught between my great sorrow and great guilt. feeling I was letting down Uncle Peter and his memory. Both Daddy and Mommy were very concerned. They both knew that, except for when I had to eat with Grandad. I barely touched my food. Even the simplest of my farm chores became nearly impossible. Uncle Simon was everywhere, covering for me so that Grandad Forman wouldn't complain. Many times I found my work had already been done before I arrived to do it. I knew it wasn't fair. Uncle Simon had more to do than most people, even for someone as big and powerful as he was.

&n

bsp; The few friends I had at school began to avoid me. I knew why. I knew I was too depressing to them, and there was just so much time they wanted to give my period of mourning. They wanted to talk about their flirtations, their music and television programs, and here I was staring at the lunch table in dark silence, not listening to what they were saying and not caring.

I didn't watch television or listen to music and had no interest in going to the movies or on trips with anyone who asked, so they stopped asking. I felt like a balloon that had broken loose and was drifting in the wind aimlessly, carried in whatever direction the breeze was going, and slowly sinking into darkness.

Finally, one night when I had wandered off after dinner. Daddy came out to find me. I had gone down to the pond and sat on the small dock, my feet dangling only an inch or so from the inky water. Around me, the peepers were conducting a choral symphony, punctuated occasionally with a splash when a bullfrog leapt into the water. Because of the way the stars danced on the water and the solitude here, the pond was one of Uncle Peter's and my favorite places.

"Hey," I heard Daddy say, and turned in surprise to see him walking toward me. "Why aren't you doing homework or practicing your violin?" he asked when he was beside me.

"I have it all done. Daddy. I did it in study session today."

"Okay, but I've gotten used to hearing that violin," he said.

I looked out at the dark water.

"Uncle Peter would be pretty upset, after all he did to get you started," Daddy said softly. "I told you I was going to continue paying for your lessons."

"I know,"" I choked back my tears.

Daddy then did something he had never done before. He sat next to me on the dock, keeping his feet just above the water. too. For a long moment neither of us spoke. The silence seemed to engulf us like a warm blanket. I imagined his arm around my shoulders, just the way Uncle Peter would embrace me occasionally and laugh or try to cheer me up.

"I miss him a great deal. too," Daddy said. "Every time I hear someone laugh. I turn to see if Peter is coming through a door or over the field toward me. I warned him about doing that crop dusting, but he was so carefree about everything in his life. He just refused to see danger or evil anywhere. He was too pure a spirit."

"I know." I said. A fugitive tear started to run down my left cheek. I flicked it off quickly, the way I might flick off a fly.