Hello again, and sorry it's been so long since I've last written. I won't bore you with the excuses, suffice to say that I've been experiencing writer's block and whatever I did write and was satisfied with would not make sense if I posted it. Here is a short story that I had recently written. Please tell me if it's confusing, because I've been having trouble wiht that lately.
SEVEN YEARS
It had been seven
years, and the pain is still fresh in my heart as I open the gate. My footsteps
echo on the small paved path weaving through the yard. The lilies in my hand
are still fresh, just the way She would like them, and I remember the times that
we would spend hours playing in the meadow near the house, rolling in the sweet
grass and weaving chains of daises to adorn our hair until Mama called us in
for dinner of hot, thick soup. I remember how She would always break her rolls
into the stew and hide them. Mama would always tell her not to play with her
food; she was a grown-up, and grown-ups were to set a good example.
The songs that She
would sing - they're still alive in my ears. Songs about sleepy gardens awoken
by the warm touch of Spring, of dawn creeping over ivy-decked walls and
illuminating the young dew with a colorful glow. The fires that She would make,
and the games of popping-corn that we would play with them. Papa would
sometimes join, but often he had work to do. My mama says that we were to act
like civilized people, and that I was to do my lesson, so I would, and She
would do it with me, showing me the letters and numbers, and later the wars and
generals and treaties of old. Then we would go outside and play on the lawn,
or, if it was raining, snuggle up in the library with a long, good book to
read: The Odyssey, Shakespeare. We would talk long about them before I went to
bed, and the next morning She would be there at the foot of my bed before I
woke up to start the day.
On Sundays She would
help me into my good clothes, and we would go to church together, hand in hand,
and I would ask her questions, like why God decided to make the Earth round and
where the Garden of Eden is now. We would sit through the service, and whatever
I didn't understand She would explain afterwards. She was always good at it,
and her words were far simpler than Pastor's. Sunday brunch was always made for
her especially by Cook, who has always loved her, but She never accepted his
many proposals. Papa says that She had always been like that, and when She was
younger and more beautiful there were suitors lined up around the block. She is
still beautiful, I said, and always will be. Papa did admit that it was so.
I feel the lilies.
They are pure white, like the pearl brooch that She wore at her throat. It was
her mother's, She always told me, which made it my grandmother's. It would be
mine next, since She didn't have any children of her own. I wear it now, and with
every step forward it feels cooler and heavier. It's like it's drawing closer
to the ground, closer to her. I finger it, trace the familiar lines that I have
seen for my entire life. Papa had seen it, too, and said that it was his
grandmother's before it was passed down to her daughter. He says that it was
given to the oldest daughter, and as She was his only sister (the other three
were boys) the pearls were given to her. She told me that they had been made a
thousand years ago, and has been worn by queens and noble's wives, but Papa
says that it was an engagement present that was given to one of my
great-great-grandmothers. I'd rather believe the first story, but Papa is
probably right.
Finally I arrive
there. The ground is laced with frost, and the sky is a muddy grey. I don't
think that it would be one of her favorite days, but She is not here to see it.
I place the lilies on her headstone, such a beautiful thing for something so
sad. Her name is carved in bold, flowing letters and is wreathed with ivy. A
drop of water falls onto it; I put my hand to my cheek and find that it is a
tear, my own, that has slid down my face. I allow myself to cry, just this
once. I did not shed a tear for her during the last seven years, for her sake,
but I know that if She was here then She would say that it was okay, that I
could cry, that it only showed that I was human. I do. I cry and cry, and sit
upon the ground, rocking back and forth, missing her and her loving smile, her
gentle hands. I don't know how long I've been here for. It may be an hour, or a
minute, but I know that the pain will always be there; the pain of loss, of
grief.
But, I realize, there is always strength. There is always hope, and She would
tell me to take the hope, to take it and not run from the sadness, nor dwell on
it. Take the hope and the strength and subdue the pain to a quiet, happy
memory. So I stand up and dry my eyes, imagining that my fingers are hers as
they wipe away the tears, dry my cheeks and gaze at the headstone. I find that
it is no longer so hurtful to look at it anymore, although it will take years
to fight the sorrow back all the way. And as I walk back to the gate and to the
world, I think of her and what She would say. The gate closes behind me, and my
heart feels lighter as the sun peeks from behind the clouds, melting the frost
to reveal the fresh, green grass. She is home, I decide, and that is where She
likes it best, where the skies are always clear and the grass never fades. I
could only be sure that someday I will join her and we could be together once
more.
