Categories > Original > Historical
1893, California
Right before dawn as the graying night sky was drenched with resplendent hues of pink-orange did Mary Howell take her daily walks. She made it a habit to have some solitude every day invested in saving her from the tiring insanity of caring for her two rowdy boys. It was on these strolls that she could sort out her mind and wash off the remains of the day. However, today’s measures were not of the typical succession. Her husband, John Howell, knew the date better than the back of his work roughened hand. The children were still too young to apprehend, but John made sure they did not nuisance her the evening before. Mary was so appreciative towards him.
Mary rounded a corner, veering off the pathway her footprints touched upon customarily. Down the dirt trail, past the Nesbit’s home and one right at the fork in the road, she marched on. The silence had become mellifluous to the soft shell of Mary’s ear. The sun rising in the east eased her mood a strike away from melancholy. She supposed the pleasant weather might help ebb the sentiment creeping in on her, one that shook her knees and robbed salty water from her eyes. Someone in the market had once made a claim that the past had passed for a reason. Mary was not very convinced that the past was through with her quite yet.
She was growing nearer to her destination now. Even underneath the many layers of cotton clothing, her boots, and her bonnet, she felt exposed. Mary’s mind must have been playing tricks on her because she could have sworn she could feel the spring chill pierce her heart as the trail lapsed into grassy footing. She had not noticed her gaze had dragged down to her legs, the meadow floor painted a healthy green. Suddenly she could not bring herself to raise her eyes. Not when she knew the moment she would, the sensations creating knots of her insides would indefinitely explode and force her into becoming a kneeling, pleading mess. Morph her strength into a pitiable sight of a woman who was not able to save her little girl from the choking hands of sickness. Her mouth was assaulted with bitterness, irony threatening to send her into a manic, humorless fit because everything else told her the air had never smelled so sweet.
Mary pulled tired lids shut. Gently, she lifted her chin, body tense and breath heavy. She trekked on, blind with shivers running up and down her spine. When she intuited she was where the plot was, she fell to the moist, cool earth. Mary remembered gigantic brown eyes sparkling with wonder and the face of an angel who greeted each waking day with an unabridged smile. She pictured a young woman, staying up to worriedly pat the angel’s back as the girl hacked on grinding coughs. She imagined watching the color rush back into the angel’s cheeks, instead of unsteady hands fetching the family’s best blanket and wrapping it deliberately around the still beautiful shell where hopeful light behind doe eyes faded.
Mary was crying. She was not screaming, or even sobbing with her hands thrown to the heavens in anguish. It was her daughter’s birthday. Mary would smile today. The sun seemed to sing, the breeze swept through her chestnut hair and for a moment Mary could have sworn she heard a warbling giggle. She fixed a light touch on the wooden cross.
“I miss you.” She sighed.
i'm in some sort of funk right now, idek. i'm sorry for all this historical inaccuracy. but i wanted to write something sad and this depressed the hell outta me and i need to disappear into shitty romcom movies or else.
-az
Right before dawn as the graying night sky was drenched with resplendent hues of pink-orange did Mary Howell take her daily walks. She made it a habit to have some solitude every day invested in saving her from the tiring insanity of caring for her two rowdy boys. It was on these strolls that she could sort out her mind and wash off the remains of the day. However, today’s measures were not of the typical succession. Her husband, John Howell, knew the date better than the back of his work roughened hand. The children were still too young to apprehend, but John made sure they did not nuisance her the evening before. Mary was so appreciative towards him.
Mary rounded a corner, veering off the pathway her footprints touched upon customarily. Down the dirt trail, past the Nesbit’s home and one right at the fork in the road, she marched on. The silence had become mellifluous to the soft shell of Mary’s ear. The sun rising in the east eased her mood a strike away from melancholy. She supposed the pleasant weather might help ebb the sentiment creeping in on her, one that shook her knees and robbed salty water from her eyes. Someone in the market had once made a claim that the past had passed for a reason. Mary was not very convinced that the past was through with her quite yet.
She was growing nearer to her destination now. Even underneath the many layers of cotton clothing, her boots, and her bonnet, she felt exposed. Mary’s mind must have been playing tricks on her because she could have sworn she could feel the spring chill pierce her heart as the trail lapsed into grassy footing. She had not noticed her gaze had dragged down to her legs, the meadow floor painted a healthy green. Suddenly she could not bring herself to raise her eyes. Not when she knew the moment she would, the sensations creating knots of her insides would indefinitely explode and force her into becoming a kneeling, pleading mess. Morph her strength into a pitiable sight of a woman who was not able to save her little girl from the choking hands of sickness. Her mouth was assaulted with bitterness, irony threatening to send her into a manic, humorless fit because everything else told her the air had never smelled so sweet.
Mary pulled tired lids shut. Gently, she lifted her chin, body tense and breath heavy. She trekked on, blind with shivers running up and down her spine. When she intuited she was where the plot was, she fell to the moist, cool earth. Mary remembered gigantic brown eyes sparkling with wonder and the face of an angel who greeted each waking day with an unabridged smile. She pictured a young woman, staying up to worriedly pat the angel’s back as the girl hacked on grinding coughs. She imagined watching the color rush back into the angel’s cheeks, instead of unsteady hands fetching the family’s best blanket and wrapping it deliberately around the still beautiful shell where hopeful light behind doe eyes faded.
Mary was crying. She was not screaming, or even sobbing with her hands thrown to the heavens in anguish. It was her daughter’s birthday. Mary would smile today. The sun seemed to sing, the breeze swept through her chestnut hair and for a moment Mary could have sworn she heard a warbling giggle. She fixed a light touch on the wooden cross.
“I miss you.” She sighed.
i'm in some sort of funk right now, idek. i'm sorry for all this historical inaccuracy. but i wanted to write something sad and this depressed the hell outta me and i need to disappear into shitty romcom movies or else.
-az
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