Tears are streaming down her face as she wanders from room to room. The faint musty smell of a house seldom used hangs in the air. She pauses at the piano and lays a finger on a cold white key that is tinged brown with age and dust and the single note rings throughout the house. The sound bounces from room to room and each echo pierces her heart.
She didn’t think it was possible to hurt more than she already did. Her Gran meant the world to her. She had practically raised her. Emily’s mother had been a beautiful woman and had in some ways been so consumed with herself there hadn’t been much left over for Em. But that’s where her Gran had stepped in. She had never once felt like she had been cast aside. Her Gran had been more than enough for her, but now she was gone. She felt as if her heart had been ripped out of her body. How was it possible to survive without your heart? The gaping wound felt like it would never be able heal.
She moved on through the house stopping here and there to pick up a piece of her past. A past that had faded in her memories, shuffled to the back, where important memories were kept but not necessary at the time. She had thought that she would have at least another 10 years before her Gran would leave her but God had a different plan. He had been merciful, it had been quick and painless. She had simply laid down one night to go to sleep and as she drifted off to sleep each breath moved in and out, in and out until all was still. The medical examiner had said it had been her heart. While on the outside she was as tough as her island, her heart was unable to keep up.
Emily sat on the faded quilt and ran her hand across the fabric as she tried desperately to remember where each piece had come from. When she was a little girl her Gran would wrap her up on a cold, rainy day and point to a yellow gingham square or a red and green plaid and talk about the dress or shirt or tablecloth it had come from and there was always a funny or exciting story behind it. She desperately wanted to remember one. She dug deep in the shadowy depths of her memory trying to remember just one story. As if that story could somehow bring her Gran back. As if she were sitting here beside her now. She could feel her tuck an errant curl behind her ear and lay her cool hand against her cheek.
A shiver ran through her as she brushed a tear away and stood to cross the room. The closet door was cracked and she could see the sweaters stacked on the shelf in the back. As she reached up to pull one down something was holding it back. She gave another slight tug trying to disentangle whatever had a hold of it. As the sweater gave way a shoebox followed and tumbled down upon her. She had dropped the sweater just in time and lifted her hands to protect herself and the box fell perfectly into them. The top had loosened in the fall and she could see a row of envelopes lined up like sooty white soldiers, the pages stained with finger prints. She tried to tug one free but there were so many it remained lodged with the others. She tucked the sweater under her arm and headed back into the bedroom.
She carefully pried a letter free and held it in one hand examining it as she used her other to carelessly tug the sweater over her head. The springy curls pulled flat from the tension of the fabric leapt free as if even the brief imprisonment had been intolerable. She flipped the envelope over and immediately recognized her Gran’s handwriting. It was addressed to someone named Bill and the postage stamp was dated May 3, 1944.
Puzzled but intrigued she carefully removed the letter from its casing. The paper was so thin and the pencil so faded she had to strain to read the small cramped handwriting. It was filled from top to bottom with row after row of writing. She couldn’t make out the first sentence but as she scanned the rest of the page a phrase jumped out at her. “My darling, I miss you so.” She grinned. All this time and Gran had never mentioned a Bill.
As far as she knew there had only ever been her grandfather. They had met during the war and married soon after it was over. Emily had never met him but Gran mentioned him often in her captivating stories. He had died in a car accident when her mother, Caroline, was 12. A teenage boy had taken a turn too fast and over corrected to keep from running off the road. He was hit head on and both died instantly. Emily had asked Gran many times why she never remarried, but that was one area of her life that she seldom spoke of. She would wave her hand in the air, as if brushing away a pesky fly saying she never saw much reason to. Gran had a way of ending a conversation in such a way you knew it was pointless to push any further. She was firm but never became cross at Emily for asking.
Fascinated, Emily gathered the shoebox in her sweater clad arms and headed out to the back porch. With this new discovery it was easy to distract herself from the suffocating grief that filled her chest whenever she thought of her Gran. She stopped off in the kitchen grabbing an old wine goblet and a half drunk bottle of red wine from the cupboard. It seemed fitting that she would share one last bottle with Gran as she sat and read the letters.
She settled in to the wicker swing, the cushions faded from long hot summer days, the air so salty she could taste it. The letters were neatly placed in the box in order making it easy to follow the conversation between Gran and this Bill person. They were worn from age and frequent handling, but her Gran had obviously taken great care to keep from tearing them and returned each to their proper envelope. Following her lead, Emily carefully removed the first letter and began to read.
To be continued…….
One year ago I wrote the beginning of a book. We were all at the beach with Eric’s family and everybody went to play putt putt but as it was already past Bryce’s bedtime I decided to stay behind and put him down. After he was safely asleep in the pack n’ play I grabbed a glass of wine and sat out on the porch with my laptop over looking the marshy view of the inter coastal. It was dusk and I was inspired. I started typing and this is what came out. Since that day I have written a few more scenes, but mostly the story has been playing in my head. I have tried to write things down here and there, but life has gotten in the way.
This week the boys and I are headed to the beach. I will have family coming to visit us off and on, but I am really hoping that in the downtime I can try to reconnect these characters to the written word and share some more of their story with you.
Wish me luck!