|
PERFECT
TIMING
She
was
my
neighbor,
and
lived
alone,
rattling
around
like
a
ghost
in
that
big
old
house
her
husband
left
her.
One
Christmas,
when
she
was
sixty-nine,
I
gave
her
a
puppy,
a
homeless
mutt
I
found.
She
named
him
Benny,
after
Benny
Goodman.
"I
did
some
high-stepping
in
my
day,"
she
chuckled,
cuddling
that
ball
of
fluff
in
her
lap.
Eight
years,
from
my
kitchen
window,
I
watched
her
throwing
wooden
missiles,
clapping
hands
and
shouting,
"Fetch,
Benny,
fetch!"
Then
one
day,
her
shriveled
limbs
tired,
inflamed,
she
put
the
sticks
away.
I'd
bring
her
lunch
sometimes,
something
warm
for
her
to
eat.
She'd
fix
a
plate
for
him,
then
one
for
her.
"We're
watching
TV
today,"
she'd
smile
and
say,
limping
to
her
chair.
With
gnarled
hand
she'd
pat
her
lap
and
that
mutt,
sleek
and
combed,
would
jump.
The
years
went
by.
Benny,
half-blind,
lay
beside
her
chair.
"His
rheumatism's
bad,"
she'd
say,
the
furrows
deepening
on
her
brow.
"I
must
think
on
what
to
do."
Have
him
put
to
sleep,
I'd
tell
her,
he'd
be
better
off.
"Not
yet,"
she'd
say,
"next
week
is
time
enough."
I
found
her
yesterday,
rigid
in
her
chair,
linimented
arms,
no
longer
pained,
wrapped
around
that
old
dog
who'd
somehow
summoned
up
the
strength
to
make
one
final
leap.
I
like
to
think
that
somewhere
they're
together,
whole,
rose-perfumed,
high-stepping,
chasing
golden
missiles
as
Benny
Goodman
plays.
Copyright
©
1994
Ruth
Gillis
"Perfect
Timing"
received
a
First
Place
Award
in
the
Spring
1994
issue
of
Feelings;
and
a
First
Place
Award
in
the
September
1994
issue
of
Poet's
Review;
and
a
First
Place
Award
in
the
Spring
1996
issue
of
Apropos.
|
