We Miss You, Becky
                                        © 2012, C. D. Bonner

I used to like mushroom soup. Mother would mix the skinny can with water and serve it up. Occasionally she burned it. Mother was a dear lady, but she could burn a pot of soup. But I lost my taste for mushroom soup one day when Becky came over to play.

Mother would occasionally baby-sit Becky, the daughter of one of Dad’s co-workers. Although she was our age, she was stocky and much stronger. She showed no restraint when she hugged you, and you had to gasp, “Let go, you’re squeezing too hard!” before she would release her grip with a broad genuine smile.

Mother told us that Becky was “different,” and that she didn’t understand her own strength. Even at three or four years old, I understood what Mother meant by, “Not quite right, but she is so sweet.” She was. When Becky played with us, it was full steam. She was generous with all of her toys. Becky was fun to be around.

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Her older kids were loud and obnoxious. They had a mean streak, too. I once was sitting in the living room of their little frame house when I was startled by a grey streak that was followed by the two older kids at a dead run. The rooms were laid out funny, and the kids ran in a circle from room to room chasing the cat they had shaved to its skin, except for a lion’s mane and a ball on its tail. You could see its ribs and its lumpy insides. As young as I was, I thought it was mean and stupid. The poor cat had to be cold, even in the spring weather.

Doris, Jake and I sat at the table talking and laughing with Becky as we ate. Becky’s nose was running into her bowl of mushroom soup. I was polite, knowing that Becky “wasn’t quite right.” I shifted in my chair and looked away when I could. We knew it wasn’t her fault and that she didn’t realize there was a problem. We grit our teeth and got through the meal, then we went back to playing.

Pneumonia took Becky not long afterward. She had wandered outside and played in the cold wet yard for hours before her mother went to look for her. She died young, a sweet girl with the purest heart of anyone I’ve ever known.

We miss you, Becky. Your life was short, but you are not forgotten. I’d like to tell you that you were “just right.” I am among many who envy your unrestrained belly laugh and unfettered displays of affection. If you were here, I’d have mushroom soup with you.