Cedar Sanderson is doing N'inktober, so I'm going to follow along and do what I've been trained to do by the Raconteur Press Postcard books: come up with a story to match her visual prompts. I can't guarantee that I'll have a complete story for every image, but I'm going to at least try to come up with a scene, a start, or an idea!
Susurration Forget
It hurt for her to lie down under her favorite tree now. The scars on her back complained if she straightened out too quickly. Still, she managed, lowering herself carefully and scooting her bottom down the hill until she was stretched out on the cool grass, looking up through the branches of the old oak at the overcast sky.
A light breeze brushed across her soundlessly, raising goosebumps. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the sounds of her childhood. The whisper of air, the rattle of branches, the crunch of leaves as she spread herself out in the yard.
Nothing. Whisper; rattle; crunch. Words she used to know intimately.
They were strangers to her now.
She opened her eyes, blinking away a single tear. She’d made her peace with it years ago. She brushed her eyes clear. Above her, a single dead brown leaf stirred and twisted, the last one left on the tree. She watched it, tracing its silent motions against the clouds. It danced a crazy jig, not yet ready to let go of the tree.
Or maybe it was the tree that wasn’t ready to let go.
She laid there for five minutes. Or maybe ten. Long enough that the scars on her back stretched out and stopped hurting. Long enough that she started to drift off, watching the quiet parade of clouds across the sky.
A shadow fell across her, pulling her back to the world outside her and the tree. She turned to find her son Ben standing next to her. He was wearing her new University of Texas hoodie. Every day since he got his admission letter.
Mom? Are you OK? Ben’s hands flew, flowing from one sign to another. Of course he was fluent. ASL was the only language he’d ever known.
Yes. Her own response was slower. It was easier for her to pay attention to his signs than to make her own. The scars on her back extended down her arms and to her hands. Even when she knew the signs well, sometimes she had trouble making her arms and hands move the right ways.
It is that time of year. I was just remembering.
Ben moved slowly. That was his way of speaking softly. The fire.
Yes. Above her, a brief break in the clouds let a brilliant shaft of sunlight spear down. She flinched as the sight of it dragged buried memories back to the surface of her mind. The smell of gas. Rushing to the crib. The feel of Ben as she grabbed him up and wrapped him in her arms. The fear as she hunched over and dove for the door. The heat that seared her. The pressure that tumbled her head over heels. The roaring sound that was the last thing either of them ever heard.
Are you sure you’re OK?
She tilted her head back, feeling the silent breeze. Above her, the tree shook. She watched as the last lone leaf shivered, then spun off into the sky.
She held out her hand. Ben took it and helped her up gently, then helped brush the leaves and grass from her jacket. When they were done, she stood on tiptoe, took his head in her hands, and kissed him gently on the forehead before stepping back.
Yes. I am. Now. Tell me about your roommate. What was his name?
John. He’s an electrical engineer, too!
They walked back to the house in silence, talking about the days to come. She couldn’t hear the leaves crunching under her feet as she went, or even remember what they once sounded like; but she could still hear him, and that was worth it, a thousand times over.
Awww. Bittersweet.