Post by Nucky on Jul 22, 2008 17:57:49 GMT -5
Just a little piece of my story, not the whole thing. I'm not even done with the whole thing!!! Ahhh!!!
There were times when my feeble life felt worthless, when there was hardly a chance to breathe and be proud of the breath I took. I wondered if this was my fault or if this was the world’s fault. I hated the desolation of the small town that I lived in. The sun was always hot, especially so in the summer and it would glare upon the world, jealous of our meager existence. I bet it wished that it were just as insignificant as we were or maybe it just hoped for a taste of some years out of oblivion. Everyone felt the sun’s hostility, but none welcomed it more than the coyotes of Sandrose. Sandrose was where I lived. The little town edged the desert. I felt deserted. The wind would blow soft and bring some relief once in a while. My tanned face would relax despite how much I hated this little town. I had lessons to learn, but neglected them for years and years. And finally, I had time to spend, and I had no choice, but to face the music.
A fiddler sawed the bow across the rosined strings. The usually slow and dulcet notes of the violin transformed to the fiery sound of a well-practiced fiddle, quick and lively. I watched in amazement as his fingers danced upon the strings and the bow wove music into the air. And here am I. Nothing but a young woman. I looked so strikingly exotic compared to most of the population... Well, that was what they’d say. They never said “pretty,” and so I wondered if I was pretty or just exotic. Well, pretty and exotic don’t have to walk side by side; they can separate. I’m sure. My hair is dark and thick and my skin is reddish brown, Native American I suppose, but I was never told that. And for some strange reason, my eyes were tawny, a surprising gold-honey-grayish color. My mother always told me that they were my father’s eyes. The fiddler looked up, grinning. I knew what he wanted, but I turned away, leaving the fiddle case open for the next dollar. I didn’t enjoy the music, did I?
I mentioned my father, but he was long gone. He left my life when I was young, hardly into my kindergarten years. I pondered the reason he left, but my mother has remained silent about it. She didn’t know why and sometimes would wish for the answer, but I remembered that only a few years prior, I would ask her relentlessly about him. Sometimes she would glare after she answered my question, sometimes she would cry… and stranger yet were the times that she’d smile and shake her head. Once I interrogated her about this, and she replied that it was just the foolishness of young love, hardly worth the fire it summoned. “Caelo…” she would say, “I really did love him. I wonder every night and every waking moment of every day the reason he left.” I can honestly say that every time she talked about loving him, I only hated him more. Her eyes were turned on a man that would never come back and I was waiting for her open arms while she was waiting for his return. I suppose I am selfish, but I have every right to be so. He left me when I was small. And I guess he stole a bit of my mom too.
I don’t remember that day. But I remember that I never suspected him as gone for good, I knew that he’d usually leave for a couple days at a time, but that last time… he just never came back. He left without explanation, without warning. And it was there, in the back of my mind: Daddy’s coming back. But he didn’t. And when I finally realized that he was never coming back, my heart had already accepted my fatherless life. It was as if I never cared, and that hurt me. He left us and only my mother cared. I knew that she cared; my mother’s been praying every Sunday, praying for him to come back. I thought that it was foolish for her to do that. Doesn’t she know that he was not ever coming back? I gritted my teeth angrily; I wanted her to see the light: he’s not here. He’ll never be here. I sighed as I strolled down the sidewalk. The crooked bricks didn’t trip me; I had tripped over them before and had long memorized the treacherous trek. My feet knew every step. My eyes raised and they met the white steepled building. And I would have look forward to church today; she would pray for him and I would have to endure her tear strained whispers, she really wanted him to come back. I fought with my mind, wrestled with what I thought I didn’t want. What I thought I wanted. All those things. I shifted my mind as I approached the church doors. But my last thought was settled on the fact that I didn’t want him back.
I sighed, I walked into the church. I didn’t live far from it. I really couldn’t care less about God or communion, but I knew that my mother cared and I wanted to make her happy. For some reason, I felt that she was fragile. I felt that if I didn’t support her, she’d shatter into pieces and I’d be alone. I grumbled as I walked into the pew. My mother gazed maternally at me, her green eyes displaying a sigh of relief. Why did she always think that I’d leave her? Why would she even consider the thought? Oh right, my father left her. “Caelo,” she smiled as I took my place by her side.
I turned the pages of the worn hymnal as I replied, “I’m here.” My father named me, but I didn’t know why he gave me a name that was so strange. His name was relatively normal, especially compared to my name; his name was Lawrence. I asked my mother a million times why I had to get stuck with Caelo, but she said that she was happy that I had that name. To her, it was proof that he really did exist. To me, it was proof that my father must’ve been insane.
I mumbled through most of the service, and finally, it was time for the prayers. I listened to my mother’s prayers, she was crying a little. I could hear her try to stifle tears while she prayed. And she whispered, “Please bring back Lawrence, I want to see him just one more time.” I felt the sudden urge to growl with displeasure, my mind was set in not wanting Lawrence back, and I couldn’t even consider him my father. He left us, abandoned us. Did he deserve such a devoted person as my mother? I felt that my mother wanted him too much, it wasn‘t right. She wanted him and she forgot that I needed her. And so I grew alone, and my young heart aged from taking care of her. There I stood, only twenty-two years old. And I felt older than my mother did. It was pitiful.
Before the praying was done, I heard a cry of lamentation cut into the worship. It wailed and filled the pews. The people turned their heads to find the source and they all turned past the wall. It came from outside. Rather than chase this suffering sound of the wilderness, they settled into their pews while the Pastor softened the atmosphere with jokes about that lonesome cry. “See? Even the coyotes are praying.” He smiled warmly at us, his congregation. That sound still sent chills down my back. Coyote? Was it really just a mangy wild dog? But that sound kept playing in my head. Over and over, that forlorn wailing, it sounded so wild… yet I knew there was too much passion in it. The intensity of emotion made it sound almost… human.
I shook the thoughts out of my head, but I didn’t pay attention to the rest of the service. My mother tugged on my sleeve, “Caelo? Time to leave.” I blinked back to reality, but said nothing. I only nodded in reply and I started home. My mother came close to me, “Something’s bugging you.”
“It’s nothing, Mom.”
My mother looked at me, her brows came together in deep thought but she erased her expression. Her hair was tinged with gray and her face was creased with little wrinkles. She was getting old. And she was still waiting for Lawrence. It wasn’t fair, but she wanted it this way. She didn’t want to find another man, she said that she knew that he’d come back. I sighed as I stepped away from her and towards my house. I came out and it was raining. I cursed at my terrible luck, I had no umbrella; and the rain was cold, a summer desert rain shouldn’t be so cold. I took brisk steps down the crooked sidewalk and into my house. It was warm in here at least… I didn’t know why it was so cold, the weatherman predicted glaring sun this morning, not this chilling rain.
I fetched a blanket and curled on the couch. I was tired and I was about to drift to sleep. I let my eyes wander the room until they would settle into sleep. They were half closed when I swear that I saw something in the window. I jumped up and stepped towards the cool glass. I didn’t see a thing and pressed my face against the window, rain sent ribbons running down the glass. And the moist of the outside seemed to seep into the inside as well, because the glass was fogged on my side. I didn’t see a thing, but it was there, a shape that peeked in and left. I knew that it was here. I moved away from the window, my handprints were marked wet against the fogged moisture of the window. My forehead left a small oval upon the glass. I didn’t want to be crazy. I saw something. I knew that I did. Or did I? I sighed as I returned to the couch. I cuddled into my blankets before deciding to head upstairs for a proper rest. The rain made me tired. And maybe the rain made me see things, too.
There were times when my feeble life felt worthless, when there was hardly a chance to breathe and be proud of the breath I took. I wondered if this was my fault or if this was the world’s fault. I hated the desolation of the small town that I lived in. The sun was always hot, especially so in the summer and it would glare upon the world, jealous of our meager existence. I bet it wished that it were just as insignificant as we were or maybe it just hoped for a taste of some years out of oblivion. Everyone felt the sun’s hostility, but none welcomed it more than the coyotes of Sandrose. Sandrose was where I lived. The little town edged the desert. I felt deserted. The wind would blow soft and bring some relief once in a while. My tanned face would relax despite how much I hated this little town. I had lessons to learn, but neglected them for years and years. And finally, I had time to spend, and I had no choice, but to face the music.
A fiddler sawed the bow across the rosined strings. The usually slow and dulcet notes of the violin transformed to the fiery sound of a well-practiced fiddle, quick and lively. I watched in amazement as his fingers danced upon the strings and the bow wove music into the air. And here am I. Nothing but a young woman. I looked so strikingly exotic compared to most of the population... Well, that was what they’d say. They never said “pretty,” and so I wondered if I was pretty or just exotic. Well, pretty and exotic don’t have to walk side by side; they can separate. I’m sure. My hair is dark and thick and my skin is reddish brown, Native American I suppose, but I was never told that. And for some strange reason, my eyes were tawny, a surprising gold-honey-grayish color. My mother always told me that they were my father’s eyes. The fiddler looked up, grinning. I knew what he wanted, but I turned away, leaving the fiddle case open for the next dollar. I didn’t enjoy the music, did I?
I mentioned my father, but he was long gone. He left my life when I was young, hardly into my kindergarten years. I pondered the reason he left, but my mother has remained silent about it. She didn’t know why and sometimes would wish for the answer, but I remembered that only a few years prior, I would ask her relentlessly about him. Sometimes she would glare after she answered my question, sometimes she would cry… and stranger yet were the times that she’d smile and shake her head. Once I interrogated her about this, and she replied that it was just the foolishness of young love, hardly worth the fire it summoned. “Caelo…” she would say, “I really did love him. I wonder every night and every waking moment of every day the reason he left.” I can honestly say that every time she talked about loving him, I only hated him more. Her eyes were turned on a man that would never come back and I was waiting for her open arms while she was waiting for his return. I suppose I am selfish, but I have every right to be so. He left me when I was small. And I guess he stole a bit of my mom too.
I don’t remember that day. But I remember that I never suspected him as gone for good, I knew that he’d usually leave for a couple days at a time, but that last time… he just never came back. He left without explanation, without warning. And it was there, in the back of my mind: Daddy’s coming back. But he didn’t. And when I finally realized that he was never coming back, my heart had already accepted my fatherless life. It was as if I never cared, and that hurt me. He left us and only my mother cared. I knew that she cared; my mother’s been praying every Sunday, praying for him to come back. I thought that it was foolish for her to do that. Doesn’t she know that he was not ever coming back? I gritted my teeth angrily; I wanted her to see the light: he’s not here. He’ll never be here. I sighed as I strolled down the sidewalk. The crooked bricks didn’t trip me; I had tripped over them before and had long memorized the treacherous trek. My feet knew every step. My eyes raised and they met the white steepled building. And I would have look forward to church today; she would pray for him and I would have to endure her tear strained whispers, she really wanted him to come back. I fought with my mind, wrestled with what I thought I didn’t want. What I thought I wanted. All those things. I shifted my mind as I approached the church doors. But my last thought was settled on the fact that I didn’t want him back.
I sighed, I walked into the church. I didn’t live far from it. I really couldn’t care less about God or communion, but I knew that my mother cared and I wanted to make her happy. For some reason, I felt that she was fragile. I felt that if I didn’t support her, she’d shatter into pieces and I’d be alone. I grumbled as I walked into the pew. My mother gazed maternally at me, her green eyes displaying a sigh of relief. Why did she always think that I’d leave her? Why would she even consider the thought? Oh right, my father left her. “Caelo,” she smiled as I took my place by her side.
I turned the pages of the worn hymnal as I replied, “I’m here.” My father named me, but I didn’t know why he gave me a name that was so strange. His name was relatively normal, especially compared to my name; his name was Lawrence. I asked my mother a million times why I had to get stuck with Caelo, but she said that she was happy that I had that name. To her, it was proof that he really did exist. To me, it was proof that my father must’ve been insane.
I mumbled through most of the service, and finally, it was time for the prayers. I listened to my mother’s prayers, she was crying a little. I could hear her try to stifle tears while she prayed. And she whispered, “Please bring back Lawrence, I want to see him just one more time.” I felt the sudden urge to growl with displeasure, my mind was set in not wanting Lawrence back, and I couldn’t even consider him my father. He left us, abandoned us. Did he deserve such a devoted person as my mother? I felt that my mother wanted him too much, it wasn‘t right. She wanted him and she forgot that I needed her. And so I grew alone, and my young heart aged from taking care of her. There I stood, only twenty-two years old. And I felt older than my mother did. It was pitiful.
Before the praying was done, I heard a cry of lamentation cut into the worship. It wailed and filled the pews. The people turned their heads to find the source and they all turned past the wall. It came from outside. Rather than chase this suffering sound of the wilderness, they settled into their pews while the Pastor softened the atmosphere with jokes about that lonesome cry. “See? Even the coyotes are praying.” He smiled warmly at us, his congregation. That sound still sent chills down my back. Coyote? Was it really just a mangy wild dog? But that sound kept playing in my head. Over and over, that forlorn wailing, it sounded so wild… yet I knew there was too much passion in it. The intensity of emotion made it sound almost… human.
I shook the thoughts out of my head, but I didn’t pay attention to the rest of the service. My mother tugged on my sleeve, “Caelo? Time to leave.” I blinked back to reality, but said nothing. I only nodded in reply and I started home. My mother came close to me, “Something’s bugging you.”
“It’s nothing, Mom.”
My mother looked at me, her brows came together in deep thought but she erased her expression. Her hair was tinged with gray and her face was creased with little wrinkles. She was getting old. And she was still waiting for Lawrence. It wasn’t fair, but she wanted it this way. She didn’t want to find another man, she said that she knew that he’d come back. I sighed as I stepped away from her and towards my house. I came out and it was raining. I cursed at my terrible luck, I had no umbrella; and the rain was cold, a summer desert rain shouldn’t be so cold. I took brisk steps down the crooked sidewalk and into my house. It was warm in here at least… I didn’t know why it was so cold, the weatherman predicted glaring sun this morning, not this chilling rain.
I fetched a blanket and curled on the couch. I was tired and I was about to drift to sleep. I let my eyes wander the room until they would settle into sleep. They were half closed when I swear that I saw something in the window. I jumped up and stepped towards the cool glass. I didn’t see a thing and pressed my face against the window, rain sent ribbons running down the glass. And the moist of the outside seemed to seep into the inside as well, because the glass was fogged on my side. I didn’t see a thing, but it was there, a shape that peeked in and left. I knew that it was here. I moved away from the window, my handprints were marked wet against the fogged moisture of the window. My forehead left a small oval upon the glass. I didn’t want to be crazy. I saw something. I knew that I did. Or did I? I sighed as I returned to the couch. I cuddled into my blankets before deciding to head upstairs for a proper rest. The rain made me tired. And maybe the rain made me see things, too.