Season’s salutations! I hope you’re nestled/preparing to nestle as we slip out of 2023 and plunge into a fresh year.
I plan to spend my holiday break scribbling and nibbling. But before I dash, I’d like to share a little story that I wrote. Thanks to all of you who have supported me this year — it truly brightens my spirits and encourages me to keep going!
xoxo
whitney
pistachio
by whitney matheson
“But I am just an old man!” he exclaimed. “I don’t know why you’d want anything to do with me!”
She set her glass down on the bar, gently cupped his old head in her hands and brought it all the way down to his feet.
Then she folded the old man in half again, so that he was shorter than the barstool, and again, and again several more times, until he was the size of a pistachio.
She plopped him into her mouth and gulped him down.
For the next two weeks, the old man lived inside her. She took him to the ballet and to the bank. He inhabited her while she called her mother, made a tomato omelet, watered the ferns, and wrote a poem about a woodpecker.
One morning she awoke to a twinkle in her chest, and she knew it was time to let him out.
“Wowee zowee!” the old man exclaimed, lifting his old knees into the air. “What a delight! What a life! But–”
He stopped.
“I am still just an old man. I am more confused than ever why you’d want anything to do with me!”
The woman put her coffee on the windowsill, gently took his old hands, and placed them on either side of her head.
“When you know, you’ll know,” she said, bringing her own head down to her ankles. The old man then folded the woman into herself, again and again, until she was small enough to plop inside his old mouth.
For the next two weeks, the woman lived inside the old man. He took her to an Italian restaurant and to a green bench overlooking the water. She inhabited him while he watched black-and-white movies and painted a self-portrait in watercolor.
One day he felt a flutter in his stomach and knew it was time to let her out.
“Do you understand now?” she asked.
“I think so,” he said. “What do you call that feeling?”
“I’m not sure, but nothing beats it,” she said.
The old man nodded. He took the woman’s hands in his and placed them on his old head. Within seconds, he was back inside of her as she drove up the coast and wrote a poem about a dragonfly. A couple weeks later, she was inside him as he baked a dozen blueberry scones and painted an exquisite carousel.
They continued on this way for years, taking turns filling each other with light. Before long, the woman had written an entire book of poems, then three books, and the old man had a gallery full of paintings, then three galleries. People were astounded.
“How do you do it?” they’d ask each of them. “Where do you get your inspiration?”
“From inside,” the woman always teased.
“You’d lock me up if I told you,” the old man always said.
One day the woman awoke to an inner whoosh, like a candle had been blown out inside her heart. She tried to release the old man, but nothing happened. He was gone.
She baked a dozen blueberry scones in his honor and ate one on his favorite green bench by the water. Later, as she was working on a new poem, a tear plopped onto her notebook. She smiled.
It was just the size of a pistachio.
Copyright © 2023 Whitney Matheson. All rights reserved.
Wow Whitney, that is a beautiful short story. Thank you for sharing, lovely reading for Christmas Eve.
Love this story. Happy Holidays Whitney! 🌟🎄❄