Cobwebs

The cobwebs are thick in this space. So long since I've entered. 
More than two years of life and new responsibilities.
And death.

When I unintentionally abandoned this keeper of my words, I'd just begun a new job. Learning and trying not to stress over new things. Within the year I was fortunate to receive a promotion. More learning; and accepting I will always stress over new things. 

I kept the words in my head. After so long the voices got bored with the wait. They'd start a story, then forget to tell what came next. Not that I took the time to record all they said. Too many other things.

A year of continual car trouble. An air conditioner that stopped working.

Then a year ago my husband of thirty years was diagnosed with cancer. Bone cancer.

We went to all the appointments. Started all the new medications. Things seemed stable.

First part of this year,the furnace broke.

The roof needed replaced.

Those issues were attended to. The words were forgotten before I could write them.

Suddenly things were not so stable. The meds for the cancer not working. Switch to a new one.

The voices kept the stories to themselves.

We stumbled into summer. Saying to each other all the things that needed saying. That we wanted to make sure we said. Every day. Multiple times a day.

The past few months were exhausting for both of us. His pain increased almost daily. 
We cried together. We still found things to laugh about and clung to them. We said "I love you," every day. Multiple times a day.

Watching him in pain and unable to do anything to help was awful. I am eternally thankful to hospice care for the 24 hours nurses that final five days. The family and I would never have survived whole without them.

On August 7th, 2018, the battle ended. My husband passed peacefully at home with my daughter and I at his side.

There was sadness, and relief. The majority of grieving, we did together over the past year.

Now some time has passed. I hear the murmur in my head. 

I'll try now to find the time to listen and let the words return.

Blessing of the Garden Gate

My offering for Master Class Monday at EatSleepWrite
The prompt I chose was nonpotable blessings




Twas quiet here, not long ago.  Shadow prevailed and gave cover to ghosts of the despair.  Wraiths of grief wrapped chilled fingers of loneliness around the heart of one left behind.  Neglect squeezed and choked life into submission.

Then she arrived. Her dreams and memories carried in boxes of cluttered life. The man by her side not so sure of this final destination, pulled along by her need to come home.

Life and color slowly return, the man working hard to reclaim a space left to weedy decay. She spends her time splashing color on faded walls. Together they create home.

Warm, golden light now shines from windows once shuttered in despair. The laughter within spills haphazardly into flowerbeds beneath the screened opening as one of the blood resides within again.

The bright Fae of the night climb thorny stems to peek inside.  Wings shimmering with moon glow from a cloudless sky, they raise excited brows and whisper of better times. They've marked the return of Rose and Tulip, old bearded Iris.  They hail the arrival of Lily and Heather.
  
Malevolent ivy retreats in frustration, pushed out by carefully nurtured roots. It slumbers uneasily beneath the color splashed gardens, waiting for the chance to regain a foothold.

Barefoot, careful of the garden sprites, the woman contentedly surveys the work of her spouse. Multiple beds entice butterflies and honey bees. Songbirds settle into the regained peace. 

A vegetable garden flourishes where none have farmed for decades. Fruit trees replace the ones lost through age and neglect. Wild berries welcome eager hands that have grown since picking and stuffing them into giggling faces long ago.

Her gaze follows the spreading limbs of the oak that shaded her childhood. Beneath it an overgrown lilac was a green fortress for herself and her siblings. Trimmed and tidied it still provides a quiet space within to think and to dream. 

On sunny days her man sees the figure of a woman regarding his work. Her grandmother she says. The one who left behind bits of garden hidden amongst the weeds. He raises his brow, but accepts and hopes his efforts are acceptable.

From the corner of her eye she catches glimpses of the Fae. They duck under the ferns and dance around the lilies. Playing chase with the squirrels and flitting about the feeder with hummingbirds. She tells no one she sees them, just smiles to herself.

Flowers follow their season, bloom then fade, replaced by the next, finally relinquishing to colder months. The vegetable garden ripens and gives its bounty to enhance the table through winter. Always some seed or fruit is left behind for wildlife. And Fae.

Snow fall blankets the ground, insulating roots and bulbs. A protective cover of bright white sheltering the promise of spring to come. 

She looks for the tracks in the snow. Rabbit, squirrel, and sometimes prints unfamiliar. Frosty pictures are left on window panes, icy flowers, a reminder that spring is nearby.

With yarn in her lap she waits out the cold. Watching for the early signs, a blush in the undergrowth, tiny buds peeking from the trees. Daffodils pushing through the frost, not waiting for a designated date. 

Soon, the time for faery dances and color will draw her barefoot through the garden gate and all the blessings it holds.

Wish Upon a Star

Write at the Merge, Week 40 

Cameron gave us two photos for inspiration this week.  You can find them here

"Why're we here again, girlie?"

"We are looking for the wulver that has chosen this place as its hunting ground, Liam."  Anne Marie sniffed the air at the street end of an alley.  "It's what I do."

Liam looked over her shoulder.  "Ye doona need ye're nose, sweetling, there's light enough ablazin' to see fer miles."

The pair continued down the avenue, at each alley, Anne Marie tested the scent.  So far, she'd found no hint of the werewolf she was hunting.

"I say ye're searchin' the wrong side a town, Annie.  No wolfman worth his hide would hunt in this light.  Ye canna even see the star through this sodium bathed backwash."

"What are you blathering about, Liam?"

"Stars, Annie, I canna see the stars."

"What stars?"

"My point exactly, lass."  Liam laid a hand on her shoulder, "Annie, let's go back to the old land.  I still own the manor..."

"The ruins of a manor, Liam, you haven't been there, in what?  Centuries?"

"All the better, no electric lights to block the stars."  Liam cocked a half smile, "Remember when we used ta sleep in the wilds, Annie.  Nothin' fer miles.  No light, just the faint glow of the dyin' cook fire.  No horns blarin', just the song of crickets and tree frogs, leaves whisprin' secrets to each other."

"Liam, are you alright?"  Anne Marie looked at her oldest acquaintance suspiciously. "You have fed recently, haven't you?"

Liam sighed, "Yes, pet, I have.  Ye needn't remind me what ye think of my condition."

"Alright then, let's get back to the business at hand, shall we."  Anne Marie returned to her hunt, sniffing the air and peering down alleys.

"Aye, Annie, the business at hand." Liam gazed into the sky, seeking the light of a distant star. 

Summer Night

Trifextra: Week Seventy-Two


It's been a while since I've written anything.  Thirty-three words sounded like a good way to climb back on the wagon.  This week, I actually had a thought.  I have been lurking around, checking out the prompts, reading some of the stories, and not commenting as I should.
Life has gotten in my way.  Very annoying.  Hopefully, I can get back to this more often.
I miss it.
This week's prompt: This weekend we're asking you to describe summer in your own words. Thirty-three of them exactly, of course.

still, damp air clings to my skin
 like morning dew
as I float on the green tinted scent
 of freshly cut grass
drifting to sleep on the rise and fall 
 of locust song

The Coffee Crew

Old men, retired. They sit at their favorite table, resigned to decaf. Chatting about fishing or gardening. Or wives, often in past tense.

Pieces of their lives shed in hour long visits.

They come every day, same time, same chair, same faces.  Until one moves on.  To hospice or nursing home or beyond.

A vacant chair waits patiently.

Another day a newly old man joins. The remnants of youth drifting off. New old faces chat. The cycle continues.

Younger men eye the table warily, and watch their children grow too soon.  Knowing a chair waits for them to come along.



My shot at the 100 word song

Keeper of the Words

the prompt: A stand-alone scene, fiction or memoir, in 500 words or less, involving a handwritten letter.

Age yellowed envelopes with three cent postage. The pages inside are unlined, scratched with ink.

So many letters, from 1947 to 1952. An aunt to her niece. The handwriting in a tight, formal style, learned many years before.

The earliest notes passed along news of friends and neighbors. Bits of happenings of other family members shared from other letters that traveled across the country. Filling out the remainder of the pages with descriptions of weather or the latest shopping trip.

And always, “How is the family? The Mister? The Boy? Yourself?, I can’t wait to see you again.”

The later notes remain happy, still full of news. But, “the stairs are harder to climb.” Or, “I’d write more often, but the arthritis…” And, “hope all is well with your family. I can’t wait to see you again.”

Then came the letters in a different hand. This one younger, looser, rounder. “I stopped to see your aunt today. But she didn’t live there anymore. The landlord told us where to find her. Going to see her tomorrow. Hope all is well with your family.”

“I visited your aunt today. She’s doing well, but seems to have trouble remembering… Hope you're feeling better.”

“She can’t be alone anymore, she wanders off. She doesn't like it here… She asks about you. Too bad you can’t come.”

The last letter is dated February 2nd, 1952. My grandmother, Minnie passed away February 20th, 1952. Her Aunt Mina, also known as Minnie, joined her January 28th, 1953.

I have boxes of letters written to my grandmother from many family members. Most are from her aunt. She was named for her Aunt Mina, and there seems to have been a special bond between them.  I wish I could see the letters she wrote in return.  I never knew this grandmother, she was gone before I was born, but the amount of letters and pictures give me little look at who she was.

Aftermath

   This is some of the back story a character I've been working with.  Annag is pronounced Anak, Scottish Gaelic for Anne.




    Annag, the lone surviving soul of Clan MacClarren, awoke in the unfamiliar bed, trying to die.  Escape.

    Escape the terror that began as her wedding feast.

    Trying not to believe her betrothed had been torn apart in front of her.

    Escape the vision of savaged flesh that had been her mother.

    Trying not to remember her father being pulled down and slain.

    Escape the scream of her young sister before her head was ripped from her body.

    Trying not to see every one of her clansmen dismembered, bloodied.  Dead.

    Escape the soothing voice that kept repeating, "It will be alright."




This is my offering for Lance's #100wordsong.


The track this week is The Beatles; Revolution

Leftovers

Holidays.  Or is holi-daze?

Just barely are the Thanksgiving leftovers cleared out, then comes the company Christmas party.  The hostess armed with Ziplocs and enough food to feed a small town, insisting, "Take this home, I'll never eat all that.  This will just go to waste.  Take some home."

So I do.  A plate of deviled eggs. Half a lemon chiffon cake that she knows my husband loves.  Crackers and salami and ham and dip and...   Leftovers.

The day before Christmas Eve, I'm at the store.  Buying food for the relatives that will be over.  Crackers and little smokies and carrots and cookies and dip...  Leftovers

New Year's Day, a stop at my Uncle's for a family gathering to greet the new year.  With food.  Ham and crackers and, well, yeah, you get it.  Leftovers, sigh.

But, there was one more thing.  An old box.  Filled with old papers.  A picture of my great, great grandparents.  Copies of birth and death certificates for relatives I've only found while researching our ancestry.  Names I'd not been able to find.

A guest register from a funeral seventy some years ago.  A wedding registry from as long ago.  Newspaper articles, copies from one hundred year old archives, telling of the death of my great grandfather.  He owned a tavern, among other businesses.

An envelope full of birth congratulations, with the sympathy cards that came less than a year later when the infant that would have been my aunt died.

Bits and pieces of lives begun and ended.  Bits and pieces of lives remembered.  Leftovers.




Well, the new year is here and the holidays are behind us. Speaking of “behinds”—how about those holiday leftovers? The food, the sweets, the bills-to-come… it’s that time of year where we all try to set a plan in motion to “toss out” all of those leftovers.