I wrote this very short memoir/essay as an exercise at my writing group’s meeting yesterday. Because I haven’t posted in over a week, I decided to share it today.
The Truth About Statues
When I was very young, I thought that statues were actually dead people encased in concrete. It made sense, as every statue I’d ever seen appeared to be a well-known dead person. But one statue greatly troubled me. It was a child with wings, an angel gazing down into a dark pool of water.
“Mommy,” I asked once. “Was that a real little boy they made that statue from?”
“Probably,” she said.
“Did his parents want him to be a statue?” I persisted.
The thought appalled me. “Would you ever let me be a statue?”
“I suppose,” my mother replied. She was busy ironing and watching her soap opera on television. “Would you like to be a statue?”