Fern
April 27, 2010
Alone, she sits in silence peering through the picture window in her breakfast nook. Fern dreamt of a butter colored breakfast nook with a large picture window to show her garden since marring Winthrop, and she finally built it when he opened his private practice. She sits, looking into her garden. The very garden she planted daisies with Teagen and dafidils with Zelda.
Teagen & Zelda, her pride and joy, her sorrow & pain, her everything.
Fern sits, powerless, pondering. A mother – a good mother – is supposed to fix the wrong doings & correct all misfortunes, but what is there to be done when every bridge has been burned and there is no hope, happiness, or improvement to be found? No more tears to be shed or lectures to be given, and the only thing left to do is sit, pondering where it all went wrong.
They were never supposed to be that family. Guilt burdens her frail figure like an iron suit. Even her own husband blames her, leaving her alone to bear the weight of shattered perfection. Shattered dreams. Shattered lives.
So. She sits. Withered skin, the stories of her life forming ringlets in her black, black, black hair. Her striking blue eyes grown red from tears, sunken in with dark circles from long nights. Bones aching with emotional burdens, draped in silk pajamas. The cherry blossom print that once seemed oh so elegant now appears merely a trifle in her chaotic life. And so she sits, empty, sleep deprived, malnourished, numb. Trembling, she stares out into her garden.
How is the world still spinning, the sun still rising, lives still living, when the only thing she has the capacity to do is sit, attempting to conceive thought of a future, for she is left the only one still hoping. For she is left alone to pick up all the shards of her family.
Her home is silent, nearly unsettlingly so. Teagen has now been sleeping for over a day. Fern has grown accustom to the cycle, in a way expecting to find Teagen’s body cold soon as well. Winthrop has been sleeping at his office. Maybe the best solution is to run. Run until reality is no longer visible. But still fern sits in her breakfast nook. The movie of her mind growing monotonous – replaying the past weeks, months, years. Looking as far back as Zelda’s birth. Beautiful, beautiful Zelda. Laughter filled their house each day when she was a little girl. These memories shove a knife into Fern’s protruding ribs – and she bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds. Pouring her guilt out, staining her white marble floor that once completed her façade of perfection. How could she have let this happen to her baby girl?
And time passes…flowers turn to weeds and verdence turns to drought. Hours to days, and days to weeks.
And all she does is sit.
April 27, 2010
Alone, she sits in silence peering through the picture window in her breakfast nook. Fern dreamt of a butter colored breakfast nook with a large picture window to show her garden since marring Winthrop, and she finally built it when he opened his private practice. She sits, looking into her garden. The very garden she planted daisies with Teagen and dafidils with Zelda.
Teagen & Zelda, her pride and joy, her sorrow & pain, her everything.
Fern sits, powerless, pondering. A mother – a good mother – is supposed to fix the wrong doings & correct all misfortunes, but what is there to be done when every bridge has been burned and there is no hope, happiness, or improvement to be found? No more tears to be shed or lectures to be given, and the only thing left to do is sit, pondering where it all went wrong.
They were never supposed to be that family. Guilt burdens her frail figure like an iron suit. Even her own husband blames her, leaving her alone to bear the weight of shattered perfection. Shattered dreams. Shattered lives.
So. She sits. Withered skin, the stories of her life forming ringlets in her black, black, black hair. Her striking blue eyes grown red from tears, sunken in with dark circles from long nights. Bones aching with emotional burdens, draped in silk pajamas. The cherry blossom print that once seemed oh so elegant now appears merely a trifle in her chaotic life. And so she sits, empty, sleep deprived, malnourished, numb. Trembling, she stares out into her garden.
How is the world still spinning, the sun still rising, lives still living, when the only thing she has the capacity to do is sit, attempting to conceive thought of a future, for she is left the only one still hoping. For she is left alone to pick up all the shards of her family.
Her home is silent, nearly unsettlingly so. Teagen has now been sleeping for over a day. Fern has grown accustom to the cycle, in a way expecting to find Teagen’s body cold soon as well. Winthrop has been sleeping at his office. Maybe the best solution is to run. Run until reality is no longer visible. But still fern sits in her breakfast nook. The movie of her mind growing monotonous – replaying the past weeks, months, years. Looking as far back as Zelda’s birth. Beautiful, beautiful Zelda. Laughter filled their house each day when she was a little girl. These memories shove a knife into Fern’s protruding ribs – and she bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds. Pouring her guilt out, staining her white marble floor that once completed her façade of perfection. How could she have let this happen to her baby girl?
And time passes…flowers turn to weeds and verdence turns to drought. Hours to days, and days to weeks.
And all she does is sit.
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