In an effort to keep myself writing, for that ought to be important to myself, if not anyone else, I've taken on the responsibility to do a daily short piece on a word prompt.
This is the output from the first one, inspired by one of my favourite books; 'Little Women'.
I would love to see more people join in. The word is in the blog's title, and you could share the post, or the link, in the comments.
Last Christmas, Beth fell sick. She was the brightest of us; kind, gentle, joyful, always the first to rush forward to help a person in need, always the last to step away.
I guess we took her for granted. It is the way of the world, isn’t it? To take, and take some more, from them that give? And so we let her be the ‘good’ one, so I could be headstrong, so Amy could be flighty, so Meg could be the belle. There was always Beth. To help Mama, to nurse Papa, to play gentle tunes for when we were sick, to play bright and cheery waltzes for when we were well.
I never asked If she would have liked to dance. I never asked if she wanted to be the one who was ministered to. It never occurred to me to. Not until she fell sick.
That was last Christmas, you see. And now, there’s that empty chair by the piano, and the music has gone from our lives. We cried rivers of tears, but they wouldn’t bring her back. We swore to be more like her, but we couldn’t, could we? She was who she was, and we are who we are.
But sometimes, when I come home to visit, I see the morning sun come through the window just the right way, falling onto that empty chair by the piano. I feel like chords are playing again, and my bright, beautiful sister is sitting there, radiating her warmth and ebullience, but it is a memory, and no more.
Superb. Grief without melodrama is such a difficult thing to do and you did it seemingly effortlessly.ReplyDelete