Wednesday, February 02, 2011

WHITE

I close my eyes, see the hair. Plastered in a swirl of thalo blue, too short and black to be mine, too long to fall from the brush. I remember tapping ash from my Camel, wondering who trespassed my studio. I reached for that hair and my arm went numb, the air zagged white, and out the window fog huddled grey over the sound. I crumpled on the paint-spattered floor, counting cigarettes and brushes rolled under the easel, the shadows passing.

Now the world is blank canvas – the shades open, the sun pours in, harsh titanium. The television murmurs too low to hear, too loud to think. Nurses turn me, rub my pale unfeeling feet and arms and backside, and swaddle me again in brilliant sheets.

My son comes. I smile but he cannot see it. No one can. He sits by the bed and cradles my hand, stroking the parchment that stitches me together the way the nurses do, but longer, with smaller, tighter circles. He talks to fill in the space, more than he ever talked to me before, and I blink fast. A single tear squeezes past, and I wish I could feel it slide hot and wet down my cheek. His hand reaches. “Oh Mom” he says, and peters out of words, my poet son. I close my eyes, see the hair.

***

Inspired by the 52-250 Flash a Year Challenge theme: long distance. As well as by delving into a scene from one of my novels where the prodigal son returns home to find his mother immobilized from a stroke. Peace...

14 comments:

  1. achingly sorrowful..painted word as if done by brush.. lovely linda

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  2. You have captured the sorrow, the caring so well...

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  3. More melancholy pouring into your #fridayflash. Hope you're doing okay, Linda...

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  4. This is close to being a poem. So heartbreaking. I want to imagine her coming out of it.

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  5. I especially like, "He talks to fill in the space, more than he ever talked to me before...."

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  6. Heartbreaking, Linda. This has such a nice poetic, smooth flow to it. Very heart-wrenching.

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  7. Such a sad moment, but wonderfully portrayed. Peace to you, Linda.

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  8. Aching is a good word for this. I'm still feeling it.

    Jai

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  9. I'm calling it, you should publish an anthology of your entries for 52/250.

    This one, amazing.

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  10. What a terrible scene playing out. You did a fantastic job of showing so much through the three paragraphs. A powerful, emotional story.

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  11. Oh Linda, these scenes of yours just grab my heart. You have such a way of painting them so poetically, you can almost feel the pain. So well done.

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  12. Oh Linda, this is such a heartbreaker, it made me cry.

    As usual, you weave words with such brilliant detail it's easy to get "in" the story, making me feel like I'm right there with the characters. Thank you for sharing your gift.

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  13. ah, Linda this is really good and sad & horrible

    man I need a hug

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  14. Hey all, thank you for reading. I am slowly making my rounds to your blogs. I keep thinking life will slow down, but it doesn't. Bummer. Majorly.

    I'm going to try to write a happy piece. Not this week, but maybe the next. Peace...

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