Crime and Punishment

My mom would drop me off at her house. Each memory I have of that place is contained in the white border of a Polaroid, the colors fading and distant. For a young, melancholic girl, it was loathsome- the smell, the wood-paneled walls. There was a rickety metal swing set in the backyard, the kind with rust that would scrape the delicate skin of every child who played on it.

I didn't like her. The only tolerable thing she owned was a chest full of objects meant for children. It didn't occur to me until later that she kept them for my visits. At the time, all I thought was how unfortunate it was that the chest was under her watchful eye and not in my own room.

Over time, I may have forgotten these memories, but the first of each sin is significant. From her chest of toys is where I first took what did not belong to me- a small book with a golden spine, the size of my pocket. I think she was aware of my crime, but she never told me. She knew my guilt was punishment enough, and that I was the type of girl who would carry it for a long time.

A few years ago, I asked my mother where Mrs. Riess was. I had decided to visit her and silently act out my penance.

"She died a few years ago. She took great care of you when you were a little girl."

apple slices

Sometimes I find myself flipping through tv channels, allowing different places and people to parade before me inside that glass and plastic box. I don't want to feel like I'm missing anything. I'm glad I didn't miss seeing this one lady. She was small and elderly, with long gray hair. She lived in the mountains and wore a pink night gown. I still see her climbing a ladder up to the roof of her house holding a pan of freshly cut apples with her bony fingers. She lays the apples out on her tin roof to let them dry in the hot sun.