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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue of cc&d (v225) (the October 2011 Issue, You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:						This is also in this 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback “Up In Smoke” Order this 6" x 9" ISBN# book:

Order this writing in the book Fragments (a cc&d collection book)		get the 322 page September-December 2011 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

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Still Life with Small Talk

Gale Acuff

When I say goodbye to Miss Hooker at
the end of Sunday School I want to say
a lot more but I don’t know if words will work
for me or against me but that’s what life
is, says Father—knowing when to clam up
and knowing when to speak and what about
and never too much. She’s my teacher and
knows more about God than our preacher does
or at least I learn more from her, partly
because she doesn’t scream or roll her eyes
or get down on her knees or even cry
or if she does any or all these things
she keeps them to herself. That’s class. Mother

doesn’t like her skirts—they’re too short, she says,
and She shouldn’t wear those open-toed shoes
to church service. But Father disagrees
and gets away with it and always smiles.
I guess he gets away with it. Mother frowns
and says, Let’s change the subject, and I feel
the friction there at the dinner table
so I change it back to what it should be,
which is food, and say, Please pass the biscuits.
Or cornbread. Whatever the case may be.
They sit across from each other and I’m

in the middle—I mean I’m in between them
on the east side to their north and south, with
no one across from me to talk to but
the old painting of bread and cheese and fruit.
A still life, it’s called, because it doesn’t
move, I guess. I always forget to ask.
But if I had Miss Hooker over there

I’d talk about the weather, at first, and
then ask about her family, and if
she’s happy with that two-door coupe she drives,
and whether she likes dogs better than cats.
It’s called small talk and leads to bigger things.
That’s how Mother said she and Father met,
one standing behind the other, waiting
in line to see a movie. Father asked
her where she had been all his life, he says,
but Mother said he asked her for a match.
And I got one, Father laughs. Mother frowns.

One day I’ll be old enough to court her,
Miss Hooker, and take her out to dinner
and have her there across me, all alone
but for the other diners, who won’t
seem there at all even though they are. Life
—it’s pretty strange but it’s all I’ve known. I
love you, ma’am, I’ll say over dessert. That
way I save the best for last and have time

enough to sweet-talk her through the salad
and soup and bread, and steak, or maybe chops.
Sure, you’re fifteen years older than I am
but I don’t care if you don’t. I’ll quit school
and get a job—only say you’ll be mine.
Could be she’ll turn me down—I’ll try again.
As long as we go steady then there’s hope.

On Saturday nights when I say my prayers
I say one more for Miss Hooker and me,
that God will make me older really fast
and take away from her a year for each
year that I get older, until we meet
at the same age and I ask her for her
hand and she gives it. I slip a ring on
a certain finger and she’s mine for keeps.
Then she tells me just how to make babies

and we do and have about seventeen.
We visit Mother and Father, and hers,
once a week and sit at a long table
and eat and talk. I drive my family home
in a school bus and we put them to bed
and stay up late to watch TV until
Miss Hooker (by then I’ll know her first name)
says, Honey, let’s go to bed now, and we
do, and maybe make more babies, or talk
the way I hear my parents do when they should be
asleep, laughing and moaning, then snoring.

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