A Monster of Correction
No one knew how Aunt Alice got into our family. With her starry blue gaze and stilted posture she looked like a refugee from some tiny, impoverished European state. She moved into our apartment with a fat leather bag and an armful of books from Goodwill’s dusty shelves. The first night, when Carole served pigs’ feet and artichokes, Aunt Alice proved to be a monster of correction. Pigs’ feet should be boiled, not roasted. Artichokes go better with beef. Our dining room looks dingy. We should repaint it a delicate shade of yellow. Carole’s apron looks old-fashioned. Your hair sticks up funny. We went to bed early that night, leaving Aunt Alice complaining on the phone to a stranger she had randomly dialed. Days passed. Nights passed. The monster of correction corrected everyone we knew. She told Calvin he talked oddly. She ordered Melinda to wear longer skirts and stop showing her stuff. She told the Unitarian preacher that his God was a wimp and needed elocution lessons. She even tried to correct the sloppy eating habits of our cats, but they ignored her. Carole and I couldn’t ignore her. Aunt Alice had a voice of flint on steel. She sparked when she spoke, and several times almost set the place on fire. Finally we asked her to leave. Her response was to stretch out on the sofa and die. She was clutching a sheet of paper with instructions for the disposal of her carcass. She wanted to be cremated, and the urn with her ashes set on our mantle. Done and done. Now when that metallic voice creaks in the dark we correct her by telling her no one can hear unless she speaks up.
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William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is No Vacancy (2025). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
