Spinster: A Novel

Spinster: A Novel

Spinster: A Novel

Spinster: A Novel


WHAT is it, what is it, Little One?"

I kneel to his level and tip his chin. Tears break from the large brown eyes and set off down his face.

"That's why somebodies they tread my sore leg for notheen. Somebodies."

I sit on my low chair and take him on my knee and tuck his black head beneath my chin.

"There . . . there . . . look at my pretty boy."

But at night when I am in my slim bed, away from the chaos and hilarity of my infant-room, it is I who am the Little One. Before I turn out the light above me and open the window behind I take out my photo. It is pillow-worn, finger-worn and tear-worn, yet the face of the man is alive. I read into it all the expressions I have known; and the attention my spinster heart craves. But memory only loosens the tears. No longer does Eugene take me on his knee, tuck my black head beneath his chin and say, "There . . . there . . . look at my pretty girl".

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