read
write
members
about
account

 

datedatememberrandomsearch

July 21, 2004
Mrs. Hobart rubs her eyes again. And again. Rubs them with tiny balled-up fists, fists that pounded pie-crust dough into submission every day for 50 years, starting when she was so young she couldn't even pronounce "fist". ("Punch it with my fish, Mother?")

Her fists are weak now. Too weak to pound pie-crust, that's for sure. But strong enough to rub her eyes, as if freshly-sifted flour was blinding her.

Too weak for pie-crust, but not too weak to rub her eyes so far back into their sockets that the next rub finds her fists punching deep into her skull.