Hearts - Carol Arnold

Bernice teaches me how to make Mrs. A’s breakfast. She likes a boiled egg, cracked open on the top, and a special kind of cereal called Mam-o-knee, or something like that. It’s made of wheat hearts, with butter and sugar and lemon juice mixed in. Bernice puts white stuff on top, like milk only harder, and walnuts.

This morning is my first time serving Mrs. A breakfast in her bedroom. Her room is dark and stuffy, packed with old things. Mrs. A looks like a tiny little girl propped up in her big bed, the feather quilt so high around her I can hardly see her. On her bedstead are bottles and jars, Mrs. A’s medicines, and the fresh flowers Bernice puts there every day. A Bible is there too, an old fashioned one, leather with a big blue cross on the front. Another cross hangs over her bed, but it doesn’t look like a regular cross either. Instead of Jesus dripping blood, it’s got swirly things all over it.

As I’m walking in the room I’m thinking serving Mrs. A breakfast will be easier than giving her a bath because I don’t have to touch her, so she won’t scream. But right after I set the breakfast tray on her bed, she grabs my hand. I think, oh no, she’s going to start screaming again, but she doesn’t, she just holds onto my hand, those green eyes staring me down. I don’t know what to do so I just stare back. Next thing I know she’s crying, blubbering all over her Mam-o-knee. So I do what Bernice does, I pat her on the back with my other hand and say “there, there.” She stops crying and lets go.

I pull open the drapes to let the sun in. It’s a beautiful day outside, the sky as wide and blue as it can be, a few clouds floating by. The sycamore trees are putting out leaves, and the blue birds are building a nest in the tree right outside the window. They’re flitting around, busy as can be, flying twigs up to that nest. I’m thinking maybe I’ll go out to the barn this morning and talk to Sally. Maybe I’ll sing her the first verse of my song, the one I’m writing about my life.

I’m watching those blue birds flying around thinking about Sally and my song when hear Mrs. A mumbling. Now Mrs. A hardly ever talks, and never to me, so I turn around surprised like. She says, “Spidee, don’t let those blue birds break your heart.” Her voice is real weak, but those are the words she says, I swear it. I don’t know what to say back so I just say, “I won’t, Mrs. A., I won’t.”