I took my daughter to the lake. We spread a blanket in the grass and ate fat, purple grapes. Juice ran from her chin. Fat drops of it dotted her sundress. Her father worked until late. He tried so hard. We all felt alone.
I went places with my daughter, the market and the playground, but I felt uncomfortable. I saw a woman once who stood on her hands on a glittering saddle on top of a galloping horse. I dreamed about her, thought about her body, her silver spurs. Before birthing my daughter, I was going to be an illusionist on a stage.
We felt comfortable in places where people didn't come.
My girl wore a flower in her hair. We walked, picking up clam shells. "Look, mommy," she would say. "This one is brown!" They were all brown. She begged me to bring them with us. Soon, my hands were full and I started letting them fall in a trail behind us.
Sheltered by a bend in the water's edge, a girl surprised us, running through the sand, the hem of her dress wet. She stopped, her eyes wide. "Hello," I said meekly. She turned and ran.
Pushing through a mandrake, we emerged into a grove of honeysuckle. The girl stood at her mother's hip. They watched us, not speaking. The girl's father sat in a wheel chair. He was young and pale and handsome, dressed in black. The woman adjusted an umbrella over his head, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, glancing at us darkly. He struggled to turn his head to regard us. I felt something like longing for him. He looked away.
"Come here, darling," the mother said, her eyes shimmering. She guided the girl away, glancing over her shoulder with a darkness that froze my blood. "Come away from there."
I held my daughter's hand and we passed by them silently. The small girls locked eyes, for a moment, and then we were gone.
--------------------------------------------
This piece is an entry in the Trifecta Writing Challenge. This week we had to write 33-333 words using the 3rd definition of the word, black.
-
Interesting what happens when lives intersect in one of those places where people don't come. Beautifully written, as always. I really admire your phrasing, for example, the short sentences you open with help set the mood right from the start. I really *loved* the paragraph about the clam shells: it illustrates (for me) the struggle we have as adults to find uniqueness in ordinary things. Kids just get it.
ReplyDeleteLove the short crisp sentences; love the "reportage" feelign to this. Feels surreal and real at the same time. Loved this piece.
ReplyDeleteThat opening was great - and brought it to a really sad, almost surprising note with "we all felt alone." Then you continued the sad but still understated tone really well. A good many memorable images.
ReplyDeleteMy daughters, 3 and 6, have given many a clam shell as treasured keepsakes to unsuspecting family members and friends. Lol !!!
ReplyDeleteAbsolutely loved, loved, loved everything about your story. I love the crispness of your sentence structure. I love evocative lines such as, "We all felt alone". Finally, I loved the relationship between mother and young child.
Extremely well done. My favourite story in, what has been, a strong week for much good work.
Very lovely. The imagery has a vivid sense of place. I felt inside the story.
ReplyDeleteA sad story... the mother feels so alone, seems almost distant from her daughter... and life in general and then has this intimate moment with strangers. Such beautiful, haunting imagery.
ReplyDeleteThis is spectacular. Haunting and brimming with hollow. Your writing is sacred. I'd marry you if you weren't just pretend.
ReplyDeleteYay! I have been missing your fiction. But I love the way that this could be fiction or nonfiction. It seems to exist in a dreamtime, like the lady on horseback.
ReplyDeleteVery moving and sad, and very well-written. I loved it :)
ReplyDeleteThere's a dreamlike feel to this; lovely.
ReplyDeleteI've carried pocketsful of my son's thoroughly ordinary rocks, all of which were special to him, and I've felt that sense of intrusion when strangers are in your private place, and you are in theirs. Very beautiful piece.
ReplyDeleteThis piece took my breath away with its solitude, everyone except the daughter was so isolated from one another as if they were all standing in the desert looking different directions.
ReplyDeleteI read this in my Reader a when it was first published, and I've kind of carried it with me since. I like how you give us a story, about one thing, but it's about ten thousand other things, too. I like how my story is in here, and yours probably, and probably everyone else's too.
ReplyDeleteI've missed your fiction, too.
Thanks for linking up.
The loneliness in this story is visceral. It filled me, too, with a kind of desire.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully created.