A Short Story by Kris Spisak
Henrietta’s baby was always the pretty one. Mama always thought so. She always hugged and coddled her like she were her own, but she wasn’t. I was.
Henrietta’s baby came six years after me. I remember Mama hearing a moan from the house. She set me down on the stump of our old maple, the one that was hit by lightening the year before. She told me that she’d be right back. Don’t move your little behind from that stump, she said. I watched her spring into the house, kerchief falling off her head, and I sat there. I just sat there. I don’t know for how long, but round when the shadows were getting long on the trees, it started getting cold. I shivered for a little bit before I called for Bennie who was chasing some rats out of our back yard. He came over, licked my toes, and I know Mama told me not to, but I got off that stump. I curled up in the dirt with Bennie and hugged him. His stinky breath kept me warm. I wanted to go to the house, but I knew Mama would get me good for disobeying her. My arms had bruises already from when she gripped me so hard. I didn’t want more bruises.
