Boiling Water

The sorrow of youth

Boiling Water

The whistle on the teapot announced its shrill readiness.  My mother, masqueraded
as the bumbling "Hortense McGillicutty", climbed the long stairs
to my attic bedroom.  Gone were the ugly words, the blistering anger and the
threats of disownment.  Her charade coaxed my hot-headed fifteen-year-old
rebellion to giddy laughter and playfulness.  Arms looped together, we tromped down
and down to the kitchen where she served the tea that I had forgotten I spiked
with a handful of salt during our fight.  It crushed my mother and she just walked away,
sure she'd been the one to ruin the best moment of our relationship for the past three years. 
I never said a word.