|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedablgjk

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y. He smelled dust and his chamber pot. He
started to cough. His eyes watered. He decided to get out from under the bedbut it had been
easier to shuffle into his current position than it was to pull himself out again. He sneezedand his
head banged painfully against the underside of his bed. He started to panic. His bare feet
scrambled for some purchase on the wooden floor. He reached up and used the slats to pull
himself along until he was close enough to the edge of the bed to squeeze out again. He climbed to
his feet and leaned against the wallbreathing deeply.
That was what death was like: trapped in a small space with a big weight holding you down for all
eternity.
His mother was buried on a January morning. The ground was hardand all of the mourners wore
gloves and overcoats. The coffin looked too short when they lowered it into the dirt. His mother
had always seemed tall in life. Death had made her small.
In the weeks that followedDavid tried to lose himself in booksbecause his memories of his
mother were inextricably interwoven with books and reading. Her booksthe ones deemed
��suitable�� were passed on to himand he found himself trying to read novels that he did not
understandand poems that did nyilai：
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|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedablfsw