My sister Pat should be telling this story, but she’s dead. My mother could tell some of it, but she suffered a stroke and now is somebody I don’t know. My father probably could tell the story, too, but he died before I even knew there was a story to tell. Of course, Esther Stiles probably would be able to relate it nearly as well as my father, but Esther Stiles died in a car accident around the time my mother had the stroke.
The night Pat died, I was staying with her in our family home in Connecticut, where she lived alone. I had moved to Ohio after college, and our mother was in a nursing home. That was why I was back that evening; I had come home on one of my frequent visits. Pat and I talked for quite a while that evening. I remember telling my sister that I thought she was being too hard on herself.
“Well,” she responded. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore—ever.”
–M.M., Blue Eyes – Green Eyes – Short Story Submission
Reader: Well, the author pretty much knocked off all possible ways to verify the story. So, it was time to give the story-teller room to spin me a yarn, and a yarn it was and is. We should all be asked to earn a living doing this. Who knows how good some of these stories really are. I do know that I’m having fun reading them and commenting on them.
