Idioms

“A flash in the pan is worth two in the bush…” she taunted, bringing out tea.

“No, Mom, not quite….”

“A fly in time saves nine?”

“Almost…..have a seat and let’s enjoy our tea.” Assisting her mother to the mahogany writing table where the woman usually sat, she remembered when they would bat idioms back and forth, each trying to outdo the other in their knowledge of the language, the battle won only by who broke out laughing first.

“Don’t count your rainbows before they hatch, Sweetheart…”

“No, Mom. I won’t. So how are you feeling? Are they treating you well here? It looks comfortable….”

“Oh it’s just fine, dear! No use crying over spoiled milk anyway. We’ll be just fine.”

It was hard to believe this frail, steely blue-eyed woman had once been CEO of their busy household, hosting monthly dinner parties for 20 foreign dignitaries while keeping track of two young children. Recently she had begun to write, page after page, every day at the same time at this mahogany table, the only piece of furniture she insisted come to the nursing home with her.

Her memoirs, the younger woman had assumed. She was eager to read them, as the woman never shared much - except her love of the English language, which she keenly shared with whoever would listen.

“Besides, another day another dollop!” she added happily, turning her shiny face towards her daughter, smiling so brightly it made the younger woman weep. “Can I have a dollop please? I love my dollops.”

“Yes, yes you do Mom. Hang on a minute.”

“What’s going on here?” the male voice interrupted with a stark sternness.

The younger woman pushed past the stony face of her brother as she walked to the kitchen.

“Mom. You gotta stop this. You know better. This is ridiculous. Give me that stupid paper…”

He reached across the mahogany desk where she sat and grabbed the lined paper onto which she had poured her remaining memory.

The elderly hand came down upon him.

“Haste makes weight!” she cried.

“George! What are you doing?? Leave her be.” The younger woman returned with a scoop of Haagen Daaz vanilla ice cream and set it before the graying woman, now gazing out the window.

“What is this crap she’s writing, anyway,” he muttered.

Peering over her shoulder, through the scribble on the wrinkled page beneath her resting hand next to the china teacup, he saw only one line, written time and time again.

“You go your way, and I’ll go mine. “

Jasmin Webb