Seasonal Ink

Once upon a time, there was a house on a prairie of green, green grass. The house was built of timber and on the front hangs a wind-chime, and on windy days you can hear the music of the wind playing throughout the field. The fences guard a very beautiful garden, where herbs and vegetables grow, and when the season is right the children will help to harvest them. Before the house was a wide stretch of pristine river, sacred to the family and neighbours. Inside, there was a fireplace; routine story-telling and music playing take place by the hearth.

A large family lived in the house on the prairie. The father was a carpenter; all the furniture in the house was built by him; it was no surprise to find a random note of love under the leg of a chair or in the joint of a shelf where one wood met another. The mother woke up earlier than any members of the family to whip up whole-wheat pancakes and fill the jar with fresh milk, and prepare cornmeal cakes for teatime. The older children rose early enough to have breakfast with their father, and left for school noisily with their rambunctious behaviour. When the house is still and quiet the mother would wake her youngest daughter up, help her dress and serve her breakfast.

There was much to do around the house. Rid the shelves of dust, keeping the floor clean, cleaning the dishes and washing the clothes, drying sheets on a warm day and purging weeds from the garden. Just when the mother could take a breather, the children will be back from school and she will have to prepare dinner: oatmeal was a family favourite, sometimes sprinkled with cinnamon, sometimes garnished with herbs.

Evenings were relatively quiet. The young ones would have tire out by now. At times they would occupy the piano and the harp and the flute and the goatskin drum; a chorus of melodious notes filled the house - lilt sopranos and strong baritones. Most of the time, though, they gathered by the hearth and listened to tales of enchantments and sorceries, of princes and damsels in distress, of beasts and fairy folks. The mother and father were both skilled storytellers. The days ended with the children being tucked in bed, one by one, and wishes of good nights and blessings were said.

My heart fell. I could hear the exasperation in his voice. I thought he was going to close the door and leave, but he slipped onto the bed behind me and held me tight. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. More tears spilled, but something inside me warmed up. He wasn’t angry… I’m sorry. It’s my fault. Forgive me? Come on baby, turn over. I shifted to face him, hands still holding on to the blanket to cover my sobs. I didn’t dare to look at him, but I knew this turmoil was over. He kissed my hair and patted my back lightly. No more tears, heart… I’m sorry I hurt you. I should never have said such words, I don’t know what came over me. You’re the dearest thing that I have, and I have hurt you. And I held him. I held him as close as I could, bodies locked tight; I would not have let go if the roof was to fell on us at that moment. I held him with all my heart and soul and the tears were reduced to gasps of breath.

 It was the first time he’d stop my tears in a long - oh, very long - time. It was the first time he’d wrap his arms around me when the tears came.

And then he sang. It was a familar tune, his favourite tune, but the words were new and it came from deep within him - all the emotions that was playing in his heart, and all the things that I wanted to hear. Gradually, the gasping stopped and I could breath normally. It felt so much like old times that I whispered a silent prayer, calling on whatever forces it was that governed our universe to make this moment last.

I closed my eyes, my hand in his, my head fitting in the hollow of his shoulder perfectly.

We could stay like this for a little while more. Let us stay like this for a little while more.