SmokeLong Quarterly

In lieu of speaking, Mother has begun hoarding bits of paper in her mouth, nibbling on words, holding them back. Something she never did before. Open up, Mom. She shakes her head and pinches her mouth tight. Her cheeks bulge, the wrinkles on them disappearing. I force it, and probe her mouth with my finger, sweeping out little spittle balls. She swallows once then bites me.

I hide the mail, but she starts in on the books. So many books in Father’s old library and she doesn’t seem to care whether she’s eating history or philosophy.

I’ve moved back into my childhood home to care for her. She no longer oversees meals, governing the kitchen while my brothers and I roam the field that borders our house. Those days are over; that life is gone. Father, also gone, cannot see her foraging through his books for tasty words.

I buy her fresh fruit, the peaches and nectarines she used to love so much. But she locks her lips together. I show her photos of Thanksgiving feasts she used to prepare, but she closes her eyes. I cannot weave happiness for her from the threads of our lives.

She goes down readily for a nap and gives me her squirrel smile, spitting out a few little wads. But I see tell-tale white lumps behind her yellowed molars.

What will paper do to her intestines. What would I do if she were to choke. Thoughts, really. Not questions.

I sit on the porch while she naps and look out at the field. Crows gather in the sky and swoop in screaming concert, protecting their nests from the red-tail hawks.

A great blue heron hunts on a grassy patch, motionless, waiting. Suddenly, he darts his head down and comes up with a gopher dangling from his mouth. He flips it into his beak, and swallows. I watch the bulge slowly descend the bird’s long slender neck, taking its time going down the throat. I wonder if it will choke the heron. All these years, I thought herons were after lizards. I didn’t know they ate gophers. But birds are not fussy eaters.

I imagine the gopher went into shock. I imagine it suffocated.

Mother woke while I was outside. She began nibbling the calendar pages from the wall, tearing off little bits and chewing up her final days. When she dies, I will sell this house. Someone else will call it home and start a life here. Someone else will wander this field.

She sits at the table while I heat vegetable soup for dinner. She does not seem to like my cooking and eats very little. I cannot nourish her final days with either meals or meaning. I put spoons out and serve up the soup. I do what I can: I place a paper napkin next to Mother’s bowl. She gives me a sly look. It is not yet dark, but already the owls have begun calling to each other.

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“Opportunistic Feeders” won second place in The SmokeLong Workshop Prize 2024 and was previously published in Vestal Review.