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 Holly Winter Living The Life Of Holly Apr. 20, 2003 “I’m starving. He won’t feed me. I need food.” She said, lightly kissing my cheek as she breezed through my door. He answered my stare defensively. “It isn’t twelve yet.” And plopped on the couch, picked up several columns that I had been proofing and drifted off to sleep. “Please, tell me you have food.” She begged as she flung open the pantry door and rifled through the friend food shelf. She helped herself to several bags of potato chips and chocolate chip cookies. “Um. Were you thinking about lunch, or just snacks?” I asked, subliminally. “Ok. But. Does it HAVE to be pointy lettuce with chicken? Can I have some REAL food like a sandwich, or a hamburger or grilled cheese?” “Will a turkey sandwich work?” “Yes! Thank you!” She said, kissing my cheek, again. Food means a lot to a twelve year old girl. I let her do the creating for her and her father. Ralph is easy. She is a bit tougher. I keep rolls in the freezer for such emergencies. She loves to defrost them in the oven, figuring that it is almost as good as baking them from scratch. She set up the plates with cookies and chips and poured out the lemonade and woke her father. We sat around the living room, since my table wasn’t cleared for human consumption. Sarah let out a scream. “Oh my god. Holly. Take this. Oh. No. It’s so gross.” “What is it?” I asked, moving closer. ‘It is my nail.” She said, examining it. “I am not taking your nail. Go throw it away.” I said, returning to my seat. “No. Take it.” “No way. Why would I take your piece of nail? Gross. Yuck. I am not your mommy. Go and throw it away yourself.” She turned to her father who was undeterred by her screams. “Daddy. Take my nail.” He was eating his sandwich. “Why should I take it?” “It has blood on it!” She screeched. “So. Put it on your plate. We can throw it away later.” I know. I don’t have children. “Sarah. Go throw it away. I don’t want bloody nails walking around my living room. Gross.” She put it on her father’s leg. “I can’t eat when it is on my plate.” She whined. “It is too gross.” Ralph sighed. “It was on your finger on minute ago. How come you could eat when it was on your finger?” Sarah took a bite of her sandwich. “It wasn’t gross when it was on my finger.” She pouted. Ralph looked at the bloody nail on his pant leg. “Well. Then. Why don’t you put it back on your finger and then you can eat. I don’t want to look at it on my pants when I am eating.” “No. That is gross. I don’t want to touch it.” She squealed. “Hey.” I said. “If it matters to either of you, I would rather not have it on my floor.” Ralph grew introspective. “Why is it that when things are connected to our bodies, they don’t gross us out, but when they are detached, they upset us?” Sarah took a bite of her sandwich. “I don’t know.” “Really.” Ralph said. “Hair. If it is on our head, we like it.” “Daddy, you don’t have any hair.” Sarah pointed out. He continued. “If it is on the floor, we don’t like it. Why is that?” “Yeah.” Sarah agreed. “Like my foot. If my foot is on my body, I like it just fine. But. If I find it detached and all bloody and in the closet, then it grosses us out.” “I don’t know.” Ralph said. “I have never found a foot in a closet.” “Well. Me neither.” Sarah said. I was having trouble following the conversation. “Are you just trying to lose that nail? So you don’t have to throw it away? So that the blood gets smeared all over my carpeting? So that everyone who comes to visit wants to know why I conduct human sacrifices right here in the living room? I asked. “Well.” Sarah suggested. “Just tell them that if they really want to be really grossed out, that you have collection of detached bloody body parts in the closet that you can show them. Here you go, a piece of bloody nail for your collection!” About the author: Holly Winter is a teacher and a writer and a flight attendant living in Denver, Colorado, USA. She can be reached at her website or email: Holly@livingthelifeofholly.com ------------ Comment on this column in the forum. ------------ |
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