A Cup of Comfort for Writers by Colleen Sell

Author:Colleen Sell [Sell, Colleen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: epub, ebook
Publisher: F+W Publications, Inc.
Published: 2007-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

On Unconditional Love and Rejection Slips

The grapefruit squirted me in the eye, making it burn and tear up. Just then my grandmother came into the dining room with the mail and placed it by my mother, who scanned the voluminous pile before pulling out one envelope. She eyed the thin envelope rather cautiously, paused, and then took it and the other mail and tossed them into the wastepaper basket. My grandmother watched silently, but not for long.

“Really! You can at least open it and read it,” she said.

“I don’t want to see one more rejection slip. Period!” my mother answered.

“Poor Mommy,” I said. “Don’t feel bad. You’re a good writer.” But the words of a ten-year-old, while appreciated, were lost in the thick air of adult tension that filled the room.

“Well, I’m going to open it,” my grandmother said.

“Just leave it!” my mother commanded.

Drama at high noon on a Saturday. I straightened and sat forward, anticipating the eruption soon to come.

My grandmother fully ignored my mother, took the wastebasket — which my mother attempted to grab from her — held it tightly to her chest, and walked out of the room. I watched, transfixed, as my mother seethed.

My father could never understand the relationship between his wife and mother-in-law. Though long divorced from my mother, he would often later recall the times my mother and grandmother would fight, their voices reaching a high pitch and rage burning in their eyes. Each would go off in a different direction, slamming doors behind them. He would think, That’s it. They’ll never talk again. This time it’s over. What a shame — only to be surprised when, ten minutes later, they would be talking and laughing, as though no fight had ever occurred. It never ceased to amaze him. Poor Father. Poor people who have never known the security and joy of unconditional love.

So I wasn’t worried about their squabble over the mail that day. I knew my mother and grandmother would make up. First, though, a tug-of-war between these two souls would have to occur.

My grandmother searched through the basket, mumbling under her breath. My mother ignored her, deliberately not watching, her face filled with fury. Growing frustrated with not finding what she was looking for, my grandmother suddenly turned the basket over and let the letters fall all over the floor. She bent down, appearing to me somehow older and more vulnerable than her character displayed, and pulled out the envelope in question. She looked up, shook her head, and tore open the letter. I was mute. My grandmother stood there, reading the letter silently, saying nothing. My mother poked at her food like the sulking child my grandmother had, perhaps, momentarily reduced her to. My heart was racing with anticipation. What a fight this would be! I was becoming uncomfortable at the thought.

My grandmother finished reading the letter and, in a rather unique fashion, straightened up and charged into the room. “There,” she said, shoving the letter under my mother’s nose, moving her brunch aside, and jabbing the letter with her finger.

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