The Book of Form and Emptiness

by Ruth Ozeki

“But we don’t really know what that means. To be dead.” Benny pushed some of the words into a new line. “Yes we do. It means he’s not alive.” Annabelle was bending down over the open oven, flipping the nuggets, but the flat finality in her son’s voice made her turn. “Oh, Benny, no!” She dropped the metal spatula, and the oven door slammed shut. She ran to the refrigerator, pushing him aside. “Put it back! We have to put it back! Woman goes here, and symphony, but there was an adjective, too. What was it? I can’t remember! Why can’t I remember? Oh, Benny, do you?” She turned, beseeching him, but he had backed away. He hadn’t meant to dismantle his father’s poem. The magnets wanted to be moved around, to make new poems, and he was just trying to help them. He opened his mouth to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. He stood there, stricken, and seeing this, Annabelle broke off and reached for him. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Come.” She pulled him in close. He felt the weight of her arms around his shoulders, and the heave of her chest. “I didn’t mean—” he said. She hugged him tighter. “I know, Benny,” she said. “Don’t worry. It’s not your fault. It’s all fine, don’t cry, we’re going to be fine. . . .” He wasn’t crying, but she was.