A Princess Grows Up Redux
Though you don't know it, I still keep your old tools in the shed, the ones that remind me of cabinets, and rockers, and long afternoons smelling wood shavings as they hit the floor. The last time I saw you, I was washing socks, watching the loamy silt from the garden make its way to the bottom of the bucket. You had packed an old suitcase, though I didn't know it; filled it with Mike's baseball glove, and tattered blue shirts that smelled just like you, maybe some underwear if you were smart. You hid it behind the shed.
I had cried my last tears, or so I thought. Mike had been under ground for a year or so, and summer was stinging its way through what turned out to be a good bye. I picked up your note. Held it out far enough to read your cramped hand. You were going to pick up some flour at the store for pie. Just flour.
By the time I figured out you had gone, pie was the last thing on my mind. But I ended up baking one anyway. Maybe to celebrate the time we had or maybe to say goodbye in my own way. Then I picked up a broom and started sweeping old shavings away. But I keep the tools. Maybe you'll come back.
copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2019
Inspired by A Princess Grows Up
Posted for Poets United
I am glad she baked the pie anyway. I hope she age a bite, even three. There is power in keeping busy when life goes wild. That is reflected throughout the story--in the narrator's tone, in the way she wishes for his return but doesn't just sit to wait.
ReplyDeleteThe melancholy is so well written here, I feel like the narrator almost expected him to leave, and just maybe with the burden of a dead child in the house there is nothing that helps other than space. I think he will return after he has faced his own sorrows fully
ReplyDeleteSometimes they come back, sometimes they don't. But there is always pie!
ReplyDeleteWhat a beautifully-told story. The understated tone is perfect. I like the original poem very much too, and would have thought it perfect in itself, but now I appreciate the way the prose piece not only re-tells but expands on it.
ReplyDeleteOh, this is poignant. I feel the sadness. The reflective mood kept me intrigued. It is sad to me that she is now so alone. I do hope that she finds use for the tools though!
ReplyDeleteSometimes getting up and just doing something simple like making pie is the strongest thing a person can do. I love the protaginist's strength in deciding to continue on with life, while still nurturing a bit of hope.
ReplyDeleteI went back and read your poem, too. Wow, Margaret. This is powerful stuff, her strength in carrying on is what we do. I have lived this story. Thankfully, mine did come back.
ReplyDeleteSorry, Audrey, I meant you, not Margaret. My head was still aswirl with the power of this story.
DeletePie is a comfort food and I think she needed a piece to soothe her soul.
ReplyDeleteThis strength and toughening is needed at times. The longing and a faint hope makes life go with less stress. Love the story as well as the poem.
ReplyDeleteA pragmatic lady indeed. What else to do but go through the motions of life until the next page. I love the way you unfolded this.
ReplyDeleteA trip inside your creative mind is a wonderful trip indeed!
ReplyDeleteLove it! Wonderful writing in this bitter-sweet piece. The form you chose - a letter that, almost certainly, will never be received - is inspired.
ReplyDeleteYes, bake the pie and sweep away the debris hoping he will return to make another mess. Oh the agony of a fresh would where we just try to pick up and move one while lingering in what we've lost. Great story!
ReplyDeleteOh Audrey this is such a lovely capturing of loss and moving on, and holding on and letting go in our own way. Simply stunning!
ReplyDeleteThe voice in this piece is as strong as the character...I was floored by the time I got to "Just flour."
ReplyDeleteOh this is absolutely beautiful in its portrayal of emotions, Audrey!❤️ I held my breath through "summer was stinging its way through what turned out to be a good bye."
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ReplyDeleteA double loss. Yes, many marriages don’t survive the loss of a child. I hope he finds himself. I think she will. Her feet are firmly planted.