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Thunderquill Falcon Library Roses of Baby's Breath |
Roses of Baby's Breath by Thunder R. Falcon Louise woke to wet leaves outside. It took a moment for reality to completely enter her mind, but there were wet, tattered leaves and broken branches outside. She leaned closer to the window to see they had fallen from trees made lopsided by heavy rain. Oh no, my roses! Louise tore out of bed in her night gown, shaking the grumpy, old lump next to her. The lump stretched and yawned, taking little notice of her distressed state. With bare toes slapping, her small wrinkled feet carried her out the back door into the yard. She stopped cold and trembling in front of her precious flowerbed. She sighed in relief, as the sweet sight of its stillness moved through her gaze. The small yellow, pink and red roses, their little petaled heads weighed down by rude raindrops, were still there whole and unbroken by the windy water fall. Fetching some paper towels, she gently dried them off. Their water drenched faces bobbed from side to side in their bushes as they complained of their sulking colors and profound wetness. "I'm sorry," Louise whispered to her colorful children. "I know today is our special birthday and here you wanted to look so pretty." She pinched their stems and tweaked their petals. "And sure enough, you do." Her thoughts went to the airless breath beneath the soil. That's what made her roses so beautiful-that precious little thing her mother had put in the soil all those years ago. There was a boy then. A handsome boy with long dark hair that came down to the middle of his back. His name was Thomas and he loved her. He lived on the reservation, the one place she was forbidden to go. And on those warm lazy afternoons when she went to this special forbidden place, Thomas whispered exotic words like, te'hila-ita and uzizit'ka. This meant, he adored her and fancied her as a rose. He would also say that she was wa'ste, which meant she was pretty. Wa'ste was also the Lakota word for good. But when he said it in his touching, soft way, he really meant she was pretty. Then he would hold her and squeeze her until she felt warm, pretty and good all over. Thomas hadn't meant to, but all those sweet whispers and touches started to make her belly fat. It was a lovely little lump and she swore she could feel it move and dance, even though the tiny thing inside the lump was so very small. Knowing all the bad things she had yet to discover, Thomas begged her to runaway with him. He then cut his long hair and placed the lovely black mane in her hands for safe keeping. The place where he was going wouldn't let him keep his hair. But she could keep it always. Louise's father didn't like the boy. He said boys like Thomas, came from people that were dirty and stole things. And when he found out about Louise's lovely baby lump, he became so angry, the world around him turned dark and vanished. In his fury, he hit Louise so hard and so many times the baby fell out. The poor little thing just fell out. Holding the tiny shape in her trembling fingers, the child didn't move or cry. She just wilted in her hands, with no hope in the color of waking. Louise cried and cried. Upon seeing the deep blue bruises and red marks on her pretty face, her mother thought she should leave home after all. Taking up the baby girl in her arms, she carried her to the backyard. Louise followed, with the gift of long hair Thomas had given her. With soft hands and gentle digging, her mother opened up an empty flower bed. Wrapping the child in her father's silky hair, and enfolding it in satin cloth and ribbons of lace, she placed her into the earth like a gift. Moving the soil over the small child with long slender fingers, her mother thrust the infant into an ancient world of singing vibration and constant birth. To the side of the yard sat clusters of young rose seedlings, their leaves trembling for fear of never finding any flowers in the arms of the ever sleeping child left to care for them. To ease their worries, Louise's mother spoke to them tenderly as she planted their small rooting feet. Before sending her daughter faraway to another life, she secretly promised when she returned the bed would be full of roses that would bloom for her every spring. Thomas had never known what happened to the baby or his long hair and Louise could never bring herself to face him with the truth. Later came a new life in a strange place, with a respectable husband in the army. And he brought with him, other babies that grew into children with wishes and kisses of their very own. But Louise had never forgotten her first child, who had made a life of painting soft floral rainbows in the long sweet dawn of each new summer. In time, her mother made certain the house and the flower bed bleached of bad memories and long shadows, was returned to her. And there they were, all those beautiful little roses, just as her mother had promised all those years ago. The same roses she planted that very night, changing and ever blossoming. And today was their birthday. She patted the dirt at their bushy feet and kissed their lovely fanning brows. A slippered foot tapped on the porch. Louise turned to see her husband standing there with the sun illuminating his creased face. "There you are. And in your nighty with wet feet, no less." He pretended to look cross. "Have you been misbehaving?" "A little," Louise confessed, hiding the paper towels behind her back. She twisted about in a way that made her look like a little girl, or at least her husband seemed to think so. "It rained so hard last night, I thought it might have hurt my little roses." The old man nodded and puffed like a bear. "The way you fuss over them, you'd think there was gold in that flowerbed." "There is," Louise said sweetly of her secret child. Her husband smiled in a way that made him look young. "Bring them wet feet inside, and I'll make them some breakfast." "What sort of breakfast?" Louise asked, courting a round of their special game. "Some eggs." He stopped to ponder. "Poached eggs in milk, I think." "Never heard of those," Louise teased. "What else are you gonna make?" "Fried potatoes and ham," he said flatly. "Most definitely, fried potatoes and ham." Louise nodded in ready dismay. "Never heard of those either." The elderly man looked into the morning sun, measuring his thoughts with salt and butter. "Well, I could make some wi'tka poached in a'sanpi with some fried blo and ta'lo on the side," he suggested brushing back a long silver ponytail. "How about that?" Louise smiled. Ta'lo was the Lokota word for beef or meat. But when Thomas said it in his happy, hungry way, he really meant ham. "That sounds wonderful." she said. As Thomas moved into the house, Louise twisted softly in the breeze. She would have to be brave. Today was the day, she was going tell him. Louise hoped when she said the words, he wouldn't think sad thoughts of this special time. But a long time ago she worked out how she would speak of their daughter, who had made such a lovely creature of herself in the soil. She would tell him, how her mother helped her make a new home in the earth, and how over the years her little spirit body crafted roots and painted petals of such beauty, they spoke in silent words of color that could be heard in the deepest heart. She would speak softly when she told him, how their baby's breath moved across the roses and through their lives and children, making them all the more lovely in her silent singing hues of affection and devotion. Today was the day, they would remember the roses of their baby's breath together. Copyright © 2005 by Thunder R. Falcon All Rights Reserved Word Count - 1374 words |
