A Scraping of Shovels

My momma was big on naps when I was a girl. Until I was eight years old, she sent me to my room on summer afternoons. It was probably because of the heat in the south, The way it it penetrates to your insides leeching every bit of moisture . . . Just like the overheated engine on our old truck! It didn’t matter that it got cooler out, if you didn’t stop driving it and pour water down its throat It would eventually explode and die forever. And death, well, that wasn’t something I wanted to meet face to face, Even before I experienced that gruesome scraping of shovels. So while I hated naps, I loved my momma for taking care of me. My pa had left way before I could remember, And I’d had a succession of “steps” in and out of my life since. But Momma? Momma always stayed. Sometimes when she shouldn’t. She stayed through fights; she stayed through beatings; She stayed through cruel, abject humiliation And deep in my little child’s heart, I always thought she did it for me, Because she thought my step gave me more than he took, Until a scraping of shovels . . . I was eight. And it was nap time. So I was in my room pretending to nap. I heard Momma and my step arguing in the yard, So I army-crawled to my window for a front-row seat. Momma was holding my kitty, Miss Sniffles, and stroking her matted fur, While Step yelled that she should give her to him immediately. He said there weren’t no way he was feedin’ one more mouth And that cat might have 10 of them he feared He said it was him or that ugly, mangy cat, and she had two minutes to decide; He was goin’ to the shed for his shovels. When he left, I quietly called to my momma from my window, “What’s he mean, momma? What’s he gonna do? Can I have Miss Sniffles?” “Lands, child, NO! Go back to bed and forget you saw or heard this.” “Don’t give him my cat, momma. I love Miss Sniffles!” This I barely choked out through sobs and sniffles of my own. “Get away from that window now!” She warned in her “you better not cross me” voice. So I ducked down, crying, when a scary noise made me stop dead in my tracks. It started soft and got louder. I looked and saw it was my Step returning. The noise . . . was a scraping of two shovels as he dragged them across the macadam drive. I ducked my head again sure my momma would tell him she picked my cat over him When I heard him say, “Well, what is it, now, that fleabag or me?” I smiled knowing my momma would be telling him just where to go, then pack his bags, But all I heard was a weak little murmur, sounding like a question, To which he growled, “No. There’s no other way.” I heard my cat start hissing and growling, then a hard, loud “thwup” and silence. I heard my momma start to sob hard and I sat there. I didn’t look out the window because I knew deep down what I would see. So I sat, cold frozen despite the heat, until the sound of those scraping shovels disappeared somewhere into the dusk. That day was a turning point in my life, the day I grew up too soon. The lessons I learned were hard, but so is life. I learned grown-ups lie, since every time I asked about my cat they both said it must have run away. I learned even the people who should put you first will put themselves first when it gets hard. Momma and I never talked about that day, but it was a dark cloud over our picnic til the day she died. I learned a little girl’s dreams can be forever soured by too many naps. I learned that I didn’t want to be like my momma after all, And that flowered dresses and perfume that smells like a field of honeysuckle can’t hide a rotted, stinking soul. Finally, I learned that a scraping of shovels always means the loss of everything good. March 8, 2019