Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Love and Grace (09/11/14)
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TITLE: Sufficiency | Previous Challenge Entry
By Ann Stocking
09/18/14 -
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The platform empties, despair and commotion retreating like the tide. She places one foot in front of the other, and dirty slush seeps through the thin soles of her shoes with each step. Up the stairs, fumble for the key, open the door, hang her damp coat by the stove, set the kettle to boil. By habit, by memory. Anything familiar to ground her, to keep her from dwelling on his empty chair, his hat missing from its hook.
She pours herself a cup of tea. One cup. The other stands alone on the shelf. How long will it be? It'll be all over by Christmas, they say, full of confidence and assurance. Then our boys'll be home, safe and sound.
They'd only had a week together as man and wife. Seven brief days and nights. A mere one hundred sixty-eight hours. It might be all they ever have, if the trenches swallow him, steal him. She mustn't think about it.
She butters a piece of bread, boils an egg, pushes it away, the knot in her belly tightening. She sleeps, awakens, and reaches for him, crying silent tears when she finds the bed cold and empty. She clutches his pillow, inhaling the smell of him, his sweat and breath. Far away, a dog barks, then howls, a keening lament echoing her own longing.
Dark and light, light and dark. Days pass. Weeks pass. Christmas comes and goes, and there is no peace on earth. No peace within. Just a continual restlessness and fear that gnaws at her insides.
His letters arrive, the ink smudged, the paper creased and stained the colour of mud, of blood, and steely-skied monotony, and she tarries over them, savouring every word, listening for his voice between the lines of blurred script.
She settles into a rhythm, of rising and sleeping and working, of smiling and hoping. And becomes increasingly aware of another rhythm, a sweet and tender cadence gathering strength, intent on becoming known and felt. A presence that grows as the spring blossoms swell, infusing the air with fragrance and hope. Does she dare believe?
Come home, they say to her. It'll be better for you and the baby. It's not good for you, moping around that gloomy, empty flat, thinking contrary and unhealthy thoughts. The fresh air'll do you good. But she can't bear the thought of leaving the humble rooms they'd shared. She listens to them patiently, though, and considers all they say, but in the end decides she cannot leave after all, not yet, not while his scent lingers and his whispers still echo, where their love grew into new life. Not while there is yet hope.
.
The bullets, the mortars, the spinning shrapnel show no respect and are not mindful of affection or passion. They strike without partiality, pirouetting with random recklessness into limbs and lives. And so the telegram seizes her unawares, because the sky is so brilliantly blue, and the air is heavy with the fragrance of lilies and roses, with no shadow of pending calamity hovering on the horizon. How could this happen, that she didn't feel the cessation of his breathing, that her heart was not alerted by his sudden quietude, that no terror grasped her at the moment of his passing. Were not their spirits woven together?
His last letter arrives. My dearest, I hope you are well and happy, you and our coming little one. I've been thinking, my love. How about the name Steven for a boy, and for a girl, perhaps...?
She weeps, then, for the years that will never be, for skin uncaressed, lips unkissed, stories untold, laughter unheard. Life unshared, but joined nonetheless, in this one joyful and precious thing, a remnant of him, a lasting legacy of their love. A tiny being, of petal-soft perfection and silken hair, emerging on waves of exquisite pain and sorrow, yet bringing acquiescence with her, like a gentle, enveloping cloud. The child mewls softly, dreaming as she sleeps contentedly in her mother's arms.
This is enough. She is all I need. Grace.
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Your exquisite descriptions and use of language amazes me.
Grace, is all we need.
Well done.
God bless~
Okay, a little dramatic, I know. But that's how good you really are. I feel like there should be another level just for you.
God bless~