PERMISSION
“So, Poppa. The nurse says you’ve been talking to the the Angel of Death.”
“It’s true. He comes here a lot. He likes to schmooze.”
We’re sitting in my father’s room at the Mt. Sinai Home for the Aged.
“So, Pa. How long have you two been speaking?”
“Since the beginning. Since I was a small boy he’s been lurking in wells, hiding on tree branches, leaning on traffic lights waiting for one misstep so he can grab me. Last night he stood by my bed and yelled, ‘Enough, Morrith. For ninety-theven yearth you have ethcaped me. Give it up, for Pete’th thake.’”
“The Angel, he lisps?”
“And reeks from garlic. This morning he schlepps with him your mother in her house shoes and apron, like she’ll be some big incentive, and he yells, ‘Remember her oxtail thoup, her brithket? Come with uth, Morrith, and again you’ll eat like a printh. It’th like the Waldorf there, only cleaner. You’ll enjoy it, I promith.’”
“What did Ma say?”
“From her pickled tongue, not a peep.”
In my father’s room, the radiator hisses rhythmically along with words to a lullaby I’ve not yet forgotten.
Under my little one’s cradle stands a small white goat.
The goat traveled to sell his wares.
This, too, will my little one do.
Trading raisins and almonds.
Sleep, my little one, sleep.
A nurse checks my father’s vitals, hangs another bag on the I.V. pole. “How we doing, Morris? “ she asks.
“Never better,” he answers to her retreating back.
I stand by my father’s bed, hear his slow breath, see his arms bruised purple from needle sticks. I touch his hand.
“Stop with the foreplay,” my father says from some distant place, eyes shut. “I’m not falling for your tricks.”
“No, Pa, it’s me.”
In his bed, my father hovers, deciding. “You think he’s telling the truth, the Angel? You think there is such a place and I’ll enjoy it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, Pa. I promise.”
Then I hold my father’s hand while he makes up his mind.
published in Winter 2009 edition of DiddleDog: A Miscellany of Flash Fiction
Copyright © Ozzie Nogg. All rights reserved
“So, Poppa. The nurse says you’ve been talking to the the Angel of Death.”
“It’s true. He comes here a lot. He likes to schmooze.”
We’re sitting in my father’s room at the Mt. Sinai Home for the Aged.
“So, Pa. How long have you two been speaking?”
“Since the beginning. Since I was a small boy he’s been lurking in wells, hiding on tree branches, leaning on traffic lights waiting for one misstep so he can grab me. Last night he stood by my bed and yelled, ‘Enough, Morrith. For ninety-theven yearth you have ethcaped me. Give it up, for Pete’th thake.’”
“The Angel, he lisps?”
“And reeks from garlic. This morning he schlepps with him your mother in her house shoes and apron, like she’ll be some big incentive, and he yells, ‘Remember her oxtail thoup, her brithket? Come with uth, Morrith, and again you’ll eat like a printh. It’th like the Waldorf there, only cleaner. You’ll enjoy it, I promith.’”
“What did Ma say?”
“From her pickled tongue, not a peep.”
In my father’s room, the radiator hisses rhythmically along with words to a lullaby I’ve not yet forgotten.
Under my little one’s cradle stands a small white goat.
The goat traveled to sell his wares.
This, too, will my little one do.
Trading raisins and almonds.
Sleep, my little one, sleep.
A nurse checks my father’s vitals, hangs another bag on the I.V. pole. “How we doing, Morris? “ she asks.
“Never better,” he answers to her retreating back.
I stand by my father’s bed, hear his slow breath, see his arms bruised purple from needle sticks. I touch his hand.
“Stop with the foreplay,” my father says from some distant place, eyes shut. “I’m not falling for your tricks.”
“No, Pa, it’s me.”
In his bed, my father hovers, deciding. “You think he’s telling the truth, the Angel? You think there is such a place and I’ll enjoy it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, Pa. I promise.”
Then I hold my father’s hand while he makes up his mind.
published in Winter 2009 edition of DiddleDog: A Miscellany of Flash Fiction
Copyright © Ozzie Nogg. All rights reserved