Lincoln in the Bardo

by George Saunders

One thing I dont like is I am dumb! Everyone treats me like I am dumb all my life. And I am! Dumb. Even sewing for me is a hard one. My aunt who raised me sat hours showing me sewing. Do it like this, hon, she would say. And I would. Once. Then next time I needed to do it that way I would just sit there, needle raised. And auntie would say lord child this is the nine-millionth time I am showing you this. Whatever it was. See, now I cant remember! What it was. What auntie showed me that I forgot. When a young man come a-courting he would say something such as about the guv’ment and I would say, oh, yes, the guv’ment, my aunts teaching me to sew. And his face’d go blank. Who would want to hold or love one so dull. Unless she is fair. Which I am not. Just plain. Soon I am too old for the young men to come and be bored and that is that. And my teeth go yellow and some fall out. But even when you are a solitary older lady it is no treat to be dumb. Always at a party or so on you are left to sit by the fire, smiling as if happy, knowing none desire to speak with you.

Strange, though: it is the memory of those moments that bothers me most. The thought, specifically, that other men enjoyed whole lifetimes comprised of such moments.

Paregoric may ease the racking abdominal pain; delirium may take the child into a haven of sweet dreams, or it may deliver him into a labyrinth of nightmares.