Her gaze traveled slowly towards her body, down to her neck and
shoulders. She turned away from him as he slipped under the sheets, and
he laid himself up against her, kissing her neck and shoulders... his
face was cold from the wind outside, and his stubble gently prickled
her skin covering her in shivers. To spite the anger that had welled up
inside her, she smiled.
She half closed her eyes in memories of delight, and opened them again
this time to look at her breasts. How they drooped now, now that her
skin no longer fitted her. She laughed as he slid his hand up her shirt
while she tried to read, his fingertips were cold and the sensation
made her squirm. She smiled a sweet smile of her youth and caught sight
of her hands. The hands he used to hold in his own, the hands that used
to caress his soft skin, the hands that used to wipe away his tears...
She wiped away a solitary tear that ran its way down her soft cheek,
and stepped back from the mirror. She sighed deeply and sat herself
down on the rim of the bathtub all the while looking at her hands and
tracing her index finger over the life line, the heart line, the crown
line, the ever changing course of life. She snapped herself out of her
reverie by suddenly snatching her robe that stood waiting on a hook by
the door, and sliding it on to cover up her once again awakened
secrets. She slid into her pink lambs wool lined slippers and started
the motions of once familiar mornings.
She made her way down the hallway, past family photographs, exhibits of
her life, the life she has created for herself. She walked past the
laundry, past her bedroom and the guestroom, past the study and into
the kitchen. There she busied herself setting a cloth on the table,
place mats under plates, bowls and cutlery. She searched the cupboards
for pretty flower print napkins, the ones she had left over from the
last time she had a visitor. She switched on the kettle, put bread in
the toaster, and warmed some milk on the stove. She placed a little
army of Tupperware containers in the centre of the table, muesli,
puffed wheat, bran, and sugar. She made coffee, buttered the toast, and
placed the warm milk in a jug. She was ready. She heard the toilet
flush, a door open, and footsteps down the corridor coming for her.
"Good morning Mum", said Olivia smiling through a yawn and rubbing
sleep from her eyes, "look at you, all organised as always. Have you
been waiting long?"
"No dear, I took my time today, did you sleep well? Not too cold for
you in this old house?"
"I slept like a baby", replied Olivia from her place by the window. She
was looking out at the light sheet of frost that still covered the
ground even though the sun had risen at least two hours earlier. Just
the sight made her cold, and so she pulled a shawl off the edge of an
armchair next to her, and wrapped it around herself. She loved the
isolation here; there was not another house for miles. A few years back
when the city was stretching its expansive wings, the council had
decreed that no property in this area should be subdivided, and so
neighbours never came and solitude preserved the scent of trees and
soil. She looked over to a tree not too far from the house, to the
remnants of a tree house her father had built her decades ago, and as
she smiled at her memories she turned to join her mother at the kitchen
table. "And now I am starving!" she said as she took the seat opposite
the old woman, poured herself a coffee with two sugars and milk, and
reached for the muesli. They sat together in silence and ate. Olivia
had grown accustomed to the long bouts of quietness her mother often
indulged in. When she was a little girl her mother told her she was
quiet because she was speaking with her angels, and that Olivia should
keep quiet too for fear of waking the giant that was dreaming the world
to life. Olivia had named this giant Bob, and fancied if she was very
quiet and concentrated very hard, she could guide him in his dream. The
world made sense to her that way.
But today's silence was different. It seemed to hang over them both
like a shroud that made it difficult to draw breath; and her mother
seemed further away than she had been in years. She placed her spoon
down gently in her bowl and reached over the table to touch the old
woman's hand. "Mum, are you okay?" she asked softly so as to call her
back to the table. The soft blue-grey eyes looked up to meet her own,
and the eyebrows furrowed slightly as the old woman exhaled. After a
long pause, she finally spoke dreamily: "I had always wished my
conscience would prevent this day from coming, but now... something
inside me tells me it is time." Olivia said nothing, not wanting to
frighten the woman into silence. She simply squeezed her mother's hand
lightly and waited for her next words. The old woman continued, "You
are all woman now, and I hope your own experience of life's defining
moments will help you to understand what I am about to tell you." She
looked down at the table, nervously smoothing out the tablecloth. She
eyed her daughter to sense reaction, and saw that Olivia now sat
leaning back in her seat with her arms crossed over chest clutching the
shawl, somewhat curious and yet fearing what was about to be said.
|
|
