|
By ~Harem~ Date: 2001 Aug 21 Comment on this Work [[2001.08.21.14.35.21804]] |
|
His chair was worn and old but it smelled of him. When she sat in it, she breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and once again, she was in his arms. The chair was only a small part of his presence, which lingered long after he was gone. She felt him in the logs and beams of the home he built for her and their children. It echoed the voices of the many summers they spent in their little cabin by the lake. Quiet nites alone, fine tuned her for the faint sounds of his breath, his sighs, his laughter, his cries. The moaning pain, when he first lost his leg, still hovered in the passageways to their room. The massive stone fireplace, that was hewn from the land, was the work of his own hands. It lit the imposing parlor and adjoining monolitic dining area, with ceilings so high, it felt as if giants had once lived there. Both walls and overhead were encased in mahogony paneling by the art of his byzantine strength. The stairs which lead to the upper balcony, he created in immitation of the many ships that he grew up on. She could no longer climb them. The deftness needed to ascend them, had long since left her limbs and arms. Yet we often found her leaning against them, softly dreaming of when they first met, on a ship traveling to this shore. Twenty years after his death, she could still feel him in the damp morning air that tarried the cabin's charm. His eyes twinkled over her nighttime's slumber, as she lay in the sleigh bed that they loved in for more than fifty years. This gift to her on their first wedding anniversary, where she also bore his seven children, was the heart of her home. She never discarded a single piece of his clothing, nor any of his belongings, often snuggling with remnants he wore, stroking and bringing them close to her nose. They were a comfort to her, a pleasant reminder of the closeness they once shared. We never thought of her as being lonely. It was as if she lived in a secret world of images, and scents, visions and whispers that lingered in every corner and nook of the cabin. His spirit was thick and cushioned the blow of his death with a contented haunting that she always cherished. I only saw her cry once, when she thought no one was listening. She was crocheting a lace cover for their bed, as she sat one evening in his chair. As her fingers were nimbly working the pattern out, she was singing softly, 'you are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are grey, you'll never know dear, how much I love you...... please don't take my sunshine away. The other night dear, as I was sleeping, I dreamt I held you in my arms, but when I woke up, you were not with me...... so I hung my head, and I cried.' The tears were streaming down her cheeks..... When I approached her, she quickly wiped them with her hands, and tried to pretend that she had never shed them...... She returned to him one day, many years later, and I often wish so much, that his chair, and his cabin, were still in the family......... The first song that I learned to play on the accordion was the one that brought tears to her eyes, through the memory of their love..... ~ |