Agoloso Presents - Atondido Stories Agoloso Presents - Mama Mada | Page 237

Mama Mada wasn’t their fault. It was nobody’s fault. It happened because I was still. The moon sung something he couldn’t hear. The birds in my heart silent for a year in the dark. This is the way it is now, asking for nothing but to forget his name, a stone that I carry. It cools in my mouth in the dark and the moon sails on overhead. You ask about birds, but all I can think of is stones. My Father’s Room by Yvo nne G re e n My father had an attic room where he d id his bo o k s when he wasn’t there I used to go and look. There were scraps of paper torn off spiral pads; auction house catalogues, text circled, pages dog eared, reserve prices marked in code; a hard folding chair; a splintered trestle table and always the smell of him. Next to his room was a room full of books and bookcases; books in them, on them and on the floor (my dictionary a tiny Laro usse covered in brown paper was my father’s from prison camp). I never sat in the book room when my father was there I was afraid of him and anyway we weren’t allowed when he was co ncentrating. He hated d o ing his bo o k s but I think he liked being alone. I’d visit after he’d gone as a way to be near him. Then I went to the book room where so many abandoned stories gathered dust until I opened them, powdering the tips of my fingers. 232