Her white slatted house and large concrete front porch with iron railings seemed out of place in the predominately Victorian neighborhood; but it was all I had ever known as Mamaw’s home. I remember the last time I visited her, how the front room’s wood floors creaked fifty years of children running, prayers sent heavenward, and the noise of countless Christmas dinners where the company was even fuller than our bellies. I sat down in a chair that fifteen years before had belonged to my grandfather, and only to him. Mamaw’s cheeks, though not her disposition, grew pale as she reminisced.
I offered to make a snack and bring it back to her, but Mamaw insisted she would go. She did, afterall, work two jobs while raising her kids. “Eman never believed we could afford to own a home, not with nine children, so I had to save up the down payment by myself. Like graspin' at straws, dear, but I made us a place.” She seemed gently insulted, “So I think I can manage some light bread with a little milk and honey just fine on my own. Real milk. Not that blue stuff the doctor says to drink.” It seemed that trio had become her menu of choice lately. It was much easier on the stomach than other food, and was already prepared for her.
From my seat in the front room, I watched her electric chair maneuver through the dining room toward the kitchen. When she came to the old bed sheet printed with brown birds' nests that hung from the woodwork at the kitchen archway, I stood quickly to go pull it back, to prevent it from tangling in the chair’s wheels, but stopped myself short.
I wondered at the ease with which she crumpled up the faded nests, moving them to the side, but also at the disproportionate brightness that remained in the fledgings’ orange feathers. Successfully passing the threshold, Mamaw’s swollen knuckles released the crumpled nests again, allowing them to billow at first, then fall smoothly back to rest. Against my will, a single tear struggled down one cheek, finally resting as it thinned in the crease of my newly forming laugh line. Mamaw’s hunger would be satisfied, and I suddenly had a taste for light bread and honey. Except with skim milk.
Author notes
Prompt: Desire
Limit of 4 paragraphs
Dedicated to Mamaw, who is presently struggling with illness, but has not net crossed the threshold. I hold her dear while she is yet here, and will long treasure her when she finally crosses to her land of milk and honey. I love you Mamaw.
Any extra prayers for her are much appreciated.
In a list
A contest entry
- Prose II Let's Do It Again by Dalaney.
900 points, ended September 26, 2008, 15 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 15 of 15
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It is probably too late to pray for Mamaw, I send condolences it that is true.
Oddly, I've read this before. I don't know when or why, but I have. Maybe someone sent me the link and I read it but never commented, which would be odd since I almost always comment, especially on fiction. But maybe it's all in my head...there ae lots of stange echoes up in that cavernous space, so maybe that was all I sensed.
Capturing mamaw's crumpling the sheets/the birdsnests was exceptionally well done, both in description and in their poignancy. I also liked the rational for the speakers taste for honey, etc. For the reader it reveals that compatability, that compassion, love.
What else? I too want some bread and honey, but with Moxie, not milk. You don't know about Moxie I guess, just a soft drink.
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Never to late to pray for Mamaw! But, since this piece was written, I kept her with me in my home for a number of months. When she was stronger, she moved back home where some stays with her. Her health is improved, though not great, but she is content to be in the home she loves with all her memories.
Moxie... yes I have noticed your fascination... but being unfamiliar, I always assumed it was some sort of liquor! Nothing soft at all!
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You are, without a doubt, a damn good prose writer. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this entry - getting to know Mamaw through you. Thank you for writing. Love, Lane
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Lovely read, ten.
You'll have Mamaw always.
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A wonderful work of imagery here, where the sensations of an expereince tell a story. The stories of our lives are often in the things we see...things we really see...excellent...PK
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This prose has been well-crafted with emotions about the past and the present. The strong nature of your grandmother has been nicely expressed.
Hope your Mamaw gets in good health.
Good luck in the contest.
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Prose is definitely making a comeback in the market! Great work here! Good luck in the contest.
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Ten, I have read and re-read this story and I am, to say the least, extremely impressed. In Mamaw’s Home you took me right through the front door. Without blinking an eye I traveled through fifty years of memories, was introduced to your late grandfather through his favorite chair and, was granted an insight showing Mamaw’s disposition. All this in but the first paragraph.
The ensuing paragraphs were just as well done, packed full of your reminiscent imagery. No doubt writing this story must have taken you away to that world of yesteryears at least for a while until you came back to here. Like the journey of that single tear as it reaches (for) the laughing line’s crease. One of the many thoughts throughout this story that shows your talent of being able to put the best words in their best places. Superb! -
First, the description is excellent, I speak specifically of the part where Mamaw crumbles the bird nest curtain, that entire part was well worth the read.
There's an indefatigable nature about her, one of pride, of strength.
I like the end, the mention again of the honey and bread, it becomes a symbol of the old woman's life, of all that the narrator found poignant.
I enjoyed this very much. Well done Ten
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Wow. I love older people. They're calmer and wiser than the rest of us most of the time. My favorite line is packed with meaning and it's toward the end:
"...Against my will, a single tear struggled down one cheek, finally resting as it thinned in the crease of my newly forming laugh line..."
You recognize your own age and struggle against that tear of truth.
beautiful job TTC
Paul
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How truly amazing! I felt so many emotions reading this, but I felt the depth of your feelings the most I think.
And that hint of humour at the end really made this such a polished piece! A bit of everything. And yes to me also....a Perfect TEN!
Gaylene
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Perfect TEN.
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Thankyou for sharing this beautiful story. Your memory is impeccable. You have brought back memories of my great gran for me.
so I thankyou
hugs Moony
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WOW! I'll be back -this is wonderful Ten
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A delightful read!!
That independence and capability, so important to the elderly.
Love the line "... where the company was even more full than our bellies"
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