Bridget's flame, week four of the November contest, "nightlife"
The end of this was really difficult for me to write, so if anyone has any ideas for improving it, please tell me!
It has always amazed me, how quiet this place is at night. You would think a two-hundred-year-old farmhouse would creak and groan and tick at night; you would think the wind would whisper and sough in the eaves. The house is mute, though. It’s not a dead silence, more of an expectant one, like the house is holding its breath, waiting for its occupants to awaken.
I’ve spent a lot of time wandering around the house this spring; it’s peaceful and I like it. I don’t seem to need sleep these days, so I get up and walk around, digging around in my memories. I was born here, raised my own family here, stepped back when it was time for them to take over. This house is an old friend. We’re both waiting, I guess.
The upstairs hallway is dark, but there’s a nightlight on in the bathroom, and moonlight stealing in through the kid’s doors. When they were little, Bonnie always insisted that their doors be left open at night. She doesn’t check on them anymore, now they’re older, but I have been.
Kirsten first. She doesn’t sleep so much as hibernate: she’s burrowed under the blankets, a bulge in the bed and a tangle of cornsilk hair the only evidence she’s there at all.
“Sleep well, my darling.” I whisper, nevertheless; Kirsten-the-lump stirs and grunts. I hold my breath until I’m sure she’s going to stay asleep, then blow a kiss and go.
Otto is hard to find, surrounded as he is by umpteen stuffed animals. But there’s his head, wedged in between a giant teddy bear and a toy badger. I can see his eyes moving beneath his lids. “Dream on, little man.” He won’t wake even for the smoke alarm, so I touch his cheek, and he smiles.
Bonnie and Mike’s door is ajar, too: they must have been so tired that they didn’t think to shut it. I creep in carefully; they need what sleep they can get now. They’re both passed out on the margins of the bed, curled around the tiny baby in the center. Truthfully, it is baby Anne-Jane I’ve waited to see.
She’s splayed out on the bed, her little tummy rising and falling as she breathes. I lean carefully over Bonnie, and oh-so-gently laid my hand on the baby’s head. She squirms and frowns in her sleep, emitting the faintest of peeps. Bonnie stirs, but Anne-Jane’s her third, and she’s not going to jump up for that tiny noise.
I’ve waited just for this last child to be born. She’s named after me, as the other two are named after Mike’s mother and my father. I wish I could talk to her, tell her all the stories I’ve told her siblings, but it will be years yet before she will understand them, and you should never wake a sleeping baby.
“Goodnight, little Anne-Jane, my little namesake Goodnight, Mike. Goodnight, Bonnie-my-love.” I slip to the doorway, and blow kisses back at them: my daughter, her husband, their child. A more sacred trinity than any that consists of only men.
Oh, my lord, this is such a dear old place. I love the way the banister has been worn so satiny-smooth, partly from all the polishing it got when I slid down it as a child. The summer curtains ripple and sway in the breeze, the old furniture glows even in the moonlight. The back door has always creaked loudly, so I go out the front.
I turn at the gate and take one last look. The house is bluish in the moonlight, the barn a pewtery silver. The new grass and the infant crops look like some strange, alien foliage; a small copy of the moon shimmers on the surface of the water in the great belly of the irrigation tank.
“Goodbye.” Time, now. I head off down the lane, and don’t look back again.
~*~
“Mom?” Bonnie starts up out of bed. “Mom, are you there?” Whispering this time. She looks around the room, staring hard into the darkness. Anne-Jane stirs, yawning and smacking like a little old man. She looks around squintily for a second or two, and whimpers for food. Bonnie automatically picks her up and feeds her.
“wuzgoinon?” Mike mumbles, blinking and rubbing his face. “Were you just calling for your mother?”
“Yeah,” Bonnie frowns, “I must’ve been dreaming or something. Go back to sleep.”
Mike obeys, and in a few seconds he is snoring away. A few more minutes, and Bonnie is, too, with little Anne-Jane sleeping on her chest.
~*~
It is morning, and Bonnie is once again feeding the baby, semi-reclining in one of the motley kitchen chairs. Mike, just in from the barn, is making bacon-and-eggs; he brings her a cup of deaf, and she smiles gratefully. Kirsten and Otto bounce into the room, crowding around their mother and new sister. Bonnie distributes kisses all around.
“Hey, guys, good morning! How’d you sleep last night?”
“Good!” Kirsten snuggles up to Bonnie’s arm, gently stroking the fuzz on Anne-Jane’s head. “She sure eats a lot.”
“So did you, when you were a baby,” Bonnie laughed. “You still do! Hey, Otto-man, did you have any good dreams?”
Otto, busy twirling around the kitchen, pauses to answer, “Yes, Mummy, I dreamed that Gramma visited us last night!”
“Me, too!” Kirsten chirped. “Gramma came to say goodbye, I think.”
“Yeah,” Otto frowned, “I think Gramma’s really gone away to Heaven.”
“You know, I had that same dream.” Bonnie muses. “I wonder … She did so want to see Anne-Jane born …” She looks at Mike.
“Well, if anyone could resist the call of her maker and hang around for a while, it would be your mother.” He raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “There’s lots of stories about people with unfinished business sticking around. ‘The truth is stranger than fiction’.”
“Hmm. I don’t think it’s so strange. I think that sort of thing happens more than we can fathom.” Bonnie replies loftily. Goodbye, mom, she thinks, I’ll miss you. And she bends to kiss little Anne-Jane’s head.
It has always amazed me, how quiet this place is at night. You would think a two-hundred-year-old farmhouse would creak and groan and tick at night; you would think the wind would whisper and sough in the eaves. The house is mute, though. It’s not a dead silence, more of an expectant one, like the house is holding its breath, waiting for its occupants to awaken.
I’ve spent a lot of time wandering around the house this spring; it’s peaceful and I like it. I don’t seem to need sleep these days, so I get up and walk around, digging around in my memories. I was born here, raised my own family here, stepped back when it was time for them to take over. This house is an old friend. We’re both waiting, I guess.
The upstairs hallway is dark, but there’s a nightlight on in the bathroom, and moonlight stealing in through the kid’s doors. When they were little, Bonnie always insisted that their doors be left open at night. She doesn’t check on them anymore, now they’re older, but I have been.
Kirsten first. She doesn’t sleep so much as hibernate: she’s burrowed under the blankets, a bulge in the bed and a tangle of cornsilk hair the only evidence she’s there at all.
“Sleep well, my darling.” I whisper, nevertheless; Kirsten-the-lump stirs and grunts. I hold my breath until I’m sure she’s going to stay asleep, then blow a kiss and go.
Otto is hard to find, surrounded as he is by umpteen stuffed animals. But there’s his head, wedged in between a giant teddy bear and a toy badger. I can see his eyes moving beneath his lids. “Dream on, little man.” He won’t wake even for the smoke alarm, so I touch his cheek, and he smiles.
Bonnie and Mike’s door is ajar, too: they must have been so tired that they didn’t think to shut it. I creep in carefully; they need what sleep they can get now. They’re both passed out on the margins of the bed, curled around the tiny baby in the center. Truthfully, it is baby Anne-Jane I’ve waited to see.
She’s splayed out on the bed, her little tummy rising and falling as she breathes. I lean carefully over Bonnie, and oh-so-gently laid my hand on the baby’s head. She squirms and frowns in her sleep, emitting the faintest of peeps. Bonnie stirs, but Anne-Jane’s her third, and she’s not going to jump up for that tiny noise.
I’ve waited just for this last child to be born. She’s named after me, as the other two are named after Mike’s mother and my father. I wish I could talk to her, tell her all the stories I’ve told her siblings, but it will be years yet before she will understand them, and you should never wake a sleeping baby.
“Goodnight, little Anne-Jane, my little namesake Goodnight, Mike. Goodnight, Bonnie-my-love.” I slip to the doorway, and blow kisses back at them: my daughter, her husband, their child. A more sacred trinity than any that consists of only men.
Oh, my lord, this is such a dear old place. I love the way the banister has been worn so satiny-smooth, partly from all the polishing it got when I slid down it as a child. The summer curtains ripple and sway in the breeze, the old furniture glows even in the moonlight. The back door has always creaked loudly, so I go out the front.
I turn at the gate and take one last look. The house is bluish in the moonlight, the barn a pewtery silver. The new grass and the infant crops look like some strange, alien foliage; a small copy of the moon shimmers on the surface of the water in the great belly of the irrigation tank.
“Goodbye.” Time, now. I head off down the lane, and don’t look back again.
~*~
“Mom?” Bonnie starts up out of bed. “Mom, are you there?” Whispering this time. She looks around the room, staring hard into the darkness. Anne-Jane stirs, yawning and smacking like a little old man. She looks around squintily for a second or two, and whimpers for food. Bonnie automatically picks her up and feeds her.
“wuzgoinon?” Mike mumbles, blinking and rubbing his face. “Were you just calling for your mother?”
“Yeah,” Bonnie frowns, “I must’ve been dreaming or something. Go back to sleep.”
Mike obeys, and in a few seconds he is snoring away. A few more minutes, and Bonnie is, too, with little Anne-Jane sleeping on her chest.
~*~
It is morning, and Bonnie is once again feeding the baby, semi-reclining in one of the motley kitchen chairs. Mike, just in from the barn, is making bacon-and-eggs; he brings her a cup of deaf, and she smiles gratefully. Kirsten and Otto bounce into the room, crowding around their mother and new sister. Bonnie distributes kisses all around.
“Hey, guys, good morning! How’d you sleep last night?”
“Good!” Kirsten snuggles up to Bonnie’s arm, gently stroking the fuzz on Anne-Jane’s head. “She sure eats a lot.”
“So did you, when you were a baby,” Bonnie laughed. “You still do! Hey, Otto-man, did you have any good dreams?”
Otto, busy twirling around the kitchen, pauses to answer, “Yes, Mummy, I dreamed that Gramma visited us last night!”
“Me, too!” Kirsten chirped. “Gramma came to say goodbye, I think.”
“Yeah,” Otto frowned, “I think Gramma’s really gone away to Heaven.”
“You know, I had that same dream.” Bonnie muses. “I wonder … She did so want to see Anne-Jane born …” She looks at Mike.
“Well, if anyone could resist the call of her maker and hang around for a while, it would be your mother.” He raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “There’s lots of stories about people with unfinished business sticking around. ‘The truth is stranger than fiction’.”
“Hmm. I don’t think it’s so strange. I think that sort of thing happens more than we can fathom.” Bonnie replies loftily. Goodbye, mom, she thinks, I’ll miss you. And she bends to kiss little Anne-Jane’s head.