The Sign of the Cross
© 2004 by Tim Simmons
“All right, Mommy, just be patient.”
Outside the run-down shack that Lottie Moore calls home, the mid-summer air begins to cool slightly as the remaining rays of sunlight recede into the Mississippi night, draining the warm pastel orange from each cloud. Shadowy mountains emerge from the distance, as if summoned by some unseen signal. A distant blue-white flash on the horizon briefly illuminates a wooden cross affixed to the top of the roof.
“It won’t be long now, Mommy.” The cyclic grinding of a can opener droned beneath the high-pitched petitions of Lottie’s gray and white cat while a small television blared from the living room. The cat seemed to mimic the circular motion of the can with its body by turning endless circles. “It’s your favorite. Tuna flavor.” Lottie dumped the contents into a small plastic bowl, mashed it a few times with a fork and placed it on the floor.
“There you go. Now, you say your prayer before you eat that.” Lottie ...