The elderly have asked us to stop bringing them by the bushel, but the kids won’t stop making them and insist they’re for the elderly. The children say it in this cryptic, eyes-askance way that feels ultimately very cute despite the momentary discomfort it elicits.
So I obey the children diligently. I bring the stuffed arms they have made for the elderly to the elderly. If you want to understand what these “stuffed arms” are exactly, then let me explain it like this: using various fabrics, the children have sewn together appendage-style stuffed arms, filling them with all kinds of stuffing, from cotton to old newspaper. The fingers are sometimes mismatched in size and don’t always conform to the normal human number of five digits per hand, and are occasionally missing thumbs entirely, but they’re made with love — I think — and that’s what counts.
The arms are multi-colored because of the nature of the fabric available. The children have devoted all of their energy to the stuffed arms’ creation, and that includes making do with the fabric available.
The children don’t really play anymore, don’t venture outside into the heat. They’ve left all of their childish things to the side to make good on this goal, nebulous though it may be.
They just keep stuffing the arms, sewing ‘em up, and having me carry them off to the residences of elderly people: old folks’ homes and the like.
The elderly have gotten wise, inasmuch as they no longer welcome me into their homes, apartments, and so forth. They pretend they aren’t there, but I know they always are.
“I’ve got your stuffed arms,” I shout. “Fresh stuffed arms, gifts from the children.”
I’ve gotten good at discerning their whispers behind a locked door or through a window pane.
“We’ve got a basement full of the stuff, Abner. I can’t even move around down there anymore,” one will say.
“What do you want me to do about it, Edna? He’s right out there, waiting, waiting patiently in that way he does, with that creepy smile on his face. It used to seem welcoming but now it seems wholly and purely evil. What do you want me to do about him? He’ll just climb up to the roof and stuff the bag down our chimney if we sit here in silence and do nothing. He’s got everything figured out. He’s nine steps ahead. Dear God, if you’re up there, please spare us. I apologize for any wavering in my devotion, but experiencing the nightmare of this never-ending delivery of stuffed arms has me justifiably questioning your existence,” is a frequent reply.
After I finish stuffing the stuffed arms down that elderly couple’s chimney and hear them shouting, “No, no, not again. What, what will relieve us of this hell?” I move on to the next home, hoping to fill them with some semblance of cheer, and sadly, finding them equally disappointed by my arrival.
When I have managed a conversation, some of the elderly ask me why I keep doing it, why I continue the children’s deliveries. It gives me good reason for pause. I have to think about that one. The situation has changed so much from when I first started, when delivering the stuffed arms felt like a kind of charitable endeavor that would cement my name forever on the “good” side of history.
That doesn’t describe the work I’m doing anymore, if it ever did. Obviously, the cuteness of the children’s aspects has continued to motivate me, but that isn’t the whole reason I endure in this role, either.
I want the elderly to understand that what we’re doing is good. Sometimes kindness comes in unusual forms, but does that make it any less kind than the more traditional alternatives? Sometimes kindness becomes a burden, like in my case, being entangled in a never-ending cycle of deliveries. Does that mean we should stop being kind?
No, I’m not being honest, again.
I find I can’t lie, not to you. So I’ll just come clean, I love the touch of the arms. It’s not about kindness, and it never was, for me. It’s about my feelings felt by the arms. They aren’t real. I get it. But I believe it’s a great gift to be surrounded by arms.
Think of it. In a home full of arms, you’ll never fail to receive a hug. You’ll always know the feeling of being near someone else. You won’t be so alone.
You could be at your home, after a long day of delivering stuffed arms to the elderly, and you squeeze through the door, and all these arms are reaching for you (because your home is full of them, just as the elderly enjoy). They clap you on the back, go for a more casual handshake or embrace you entirely. You can’t even make it to your sofa chair in front of your TV with your microwave dinner anymore, because of all the love and camaraderie that surrounds you.
I can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want that?
It’s far better than what I come home to now, the many cacti the children have paid me in, more all the time. It’s an embrace, too, certainly, and I’m grateful to have something rather than nothing, but I worry what might happen to me in the long run. Their spines are very sharp, and it’s growing more difficult to keep from being wounded deeply on my way to my sofa chair with my microwaved dinner.
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Matt Rowan lives in Culver City, CA. He edits Untoward and is author of the collections Big Venerable, Why God Why, and How the Moon Works (Cobalt Press, 2021). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in NUNUM’s 2026 Opolis Anthology, Twin Bird Review, HAD, scaffold, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, X-R-A-Y, TRNSFR, and Barrelhouse, among other publications.