The Age of Reason by Mary Jo Salter “When can we have cake?” she wants to know. And patiently we explain: when dinner’s finished. Someone wants seconds; and wouldn’t she like to try, while she’s waiting, a healthful lettuce leaf? The birthday girl can’t hide her grief- worse, everybody laughs. That makes her sink two rabbity, gapped teeth, acquired this year, into a quivering lip, which puts an end to tears but not the tedium she’ll take in life before she’s given cake: “When I turned seven, now,” her grandpa says, “the priest told me I’d reached the age of reason. That means you’re old enough to tell what’s right from wrong. Make decisions on your own.” Her big eyes brighten. “So you mean I can decide to open presents first?” Laughter again (she joins it) as the reward of devil’s food is brought in on a tray. “You know why we were taught that?” asks my father. “No.” I light a candle, then another in a chain. “-So we wouldn’t burn in Hell.” A balloon pops in the other room; distracted, she innocently misses talk of nuns’ severities I never knew at seven. By then, we were Unitarian and marched off weekly, dutifully, to hear nothing in particular. “Ready!” I call, and we huddle close to sing something akin, you’d have to say, to prayer. Good God, her hair- one beribboned pigtail has swung low as she leans to trade the year in for a wish; before she blows it out, the camera’s flash captures a mother’s hand, all hope, no blame, saving her from the flame.
Posted on: Wed, 14 Jan 2015 10:36:46 +0000
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