A Small, Good Thing

As a reader of short stories, I expect to find meaning hidden under the surface and to find that meaning swiftly. I am swept in by these stories, pulled through a tale I know will not carry on as long as I might beg it to do so. To read short stories is to walk the fine line between the thirst for more and the knowledge that I have only to wait a few pages before I am struck with a sense of significance.

I spent the better part of my adolescence searching for the kind of meaning that only a short story can offer. An equal mix of escapism and a desire for some understanding of the heart of my raging hormones kept me hunting. Life should be rife with symbols; the nature of our struggles should be made clear if we pried doggedly enough. My pimples had to serve a greater purpose.

Raymond Carver slid into my first college writing course quietly. His second life brought with it his preternatural ability to move with a hushed and devastating force on the page. “A Small, Good Thing” struck me, at first, as the type of story I should emulate, if only because the middle-aged male writer is the standard-bearer of most first writing courses. I expected a dull and harsh tale; meaning, as it so often is, would be hammered through in the last few pages. I would lap the meat of the story up and find another lesson to sink my teeth into.

The first tears came unbidden as I read, and when they came, they did not stop. What was worse for me, sitting in one of the dark cubicles on the sixth floor of the library, was that I did not want them to. I could feel a longing for the warmth not only of the baker’s sweet cinnamon rolls but for real contact. I had spent so long pulling emotions out of my reading and writing, believing language should be separate. Yet, here on the page was a single act of human grace, told through the simple act of pulling out a chair and offering coffee and dark, rich bread. I was devastated and enraptured.

My heart ached upon finishing, and I grabbed up my things. I had been dodging my mother’s calls for a week. When I called her back, she asked what was wrong. I assured her I was fine, though my head felt warm and cotton-y in a way that was unfamiliar.

“Everything is okay. I just don’t think I’ve told you I miss you.”

When she responded, her voice held in it the twange of a Tennessee accent. I realized how much I had craved hearing it since moving to New York. It was a small, good thing. For the first time, the thing itself was enough.