Night blooming Crerus

Coming of age.

                                               Night Blooming Cereus

 

When I was young my mother had as her neighbor, a woman whose great age routinely astonished and frightened children. She frightened all of them including me.

 

This arthritic old widow kept, as her sole extravagance, flowers.  She kept them the way you or I, might keep cats; petting, spoiling, doting on them as if they had little souls that might suffer neglect. From false dawn through twilight she tended her garden, then retired into a dark house behind windows that never returned light.

 

Days warm enough and long enough for flowers to bloom, nourish children like milk and bread. We played out-of-doors past shadow time, played into night.  Street lights came on and stars blossomed while we bargained for minutes in whiney, sing-song pleas to our mothers. If, during this evening play, a ball escaped the street lamp’s magic amber circle, and rolled downhill into the old woman’s front garden, that ball stayed until daylight. She was “haunted.” All the children knew this, including me.

 

One summer night, she appeared, as if an apparition, and put both feet inside our circle. “Come,” she said, “Come and see before it’s too late.”

 

A tall older girl, blessed with courage, or cursed by bravado, stepped out. The rest of us, ashamed to remain, and meek as mice followed.

 

We followed the delicious, scary creak of a lantern handle as the dark antique swayed with the old woman’s hobbled motion. We followed deep into unknown parts of her garden. The only light was the Milky Way; the only sounds, crickets and nervous graveyard laughter.  Our mothers’ calls never reached this far.

 

 We gathered in the gloom, and when all the tittering stopped, she took a match from her apron pocket and drew it across the lantern base. The orange explosion under-lit her face, and for the second it took to touch bright flame to black wick, her rheumy eyes locked with mine. She waved out the match leaving glowing incantations in the air.

 

“There,” she said. “It blooms just once, and then at night so many miss it. Many, oh so many.  I thought you should see. I thought you should see it now, because tomorrow it will be gone.”

 

I remember a white purity that seemed to glow, luminous in the dark. From that moment on, it would always be the smell of summer night.

 

She stayed with the flower in her dark garden. She did not say good-bye, did not see us out.

 

Safely back inside the light, resuming summer play, we all agreed we’d seen a tear, and that the witch was mad. We all agreed, all of us, including me.

 

One by one our mothers began to call, their voices resolute, and their ears deaf to further pleas. One by one, we fled. The tall girl, who had been first, was now the last to leave.  I thought, before I turned and ran that I saw her shudder, saw her shoulders heave.  I might have heard… heard something like a sob. I began a laugh and thought to chide her, but when I stopped and looked back from the night, she too was gone. The circle was empty, just yellow light from a street lamp. Alone in the dark, my laughter died and I ran, ran home to my mother.

 

            All those children have children now, all of them, including me.

 

Author's Note

Slightly revised any comment is appreciated

Reviews

[wtp]

Nicely crafted, efficient storytelling.

The first sentence establishes the distance between the children and the old woman, saying "my mother had as her neighbor." In the next paragraph, she comes into sharp focus through the widely recognized analogy of the cat lady. Evoking summertime memories of outdoor play paints quick picture of the neighborhood children's lives.

The somewhat unwilling visit to the "unknown parts of her garden" with the tall girl's unspoken double-dog dare was very well done. I really liked the touch where you mixed the senses of sight and smell: "I remember a white purity that seemed to glow, luminous in the dark. From that moment on, it would always be the smell of summer night." We tend to acknowledge the connection between smell and taste, but connections between other senses get overlooked.

There are so many wonderful and evocative phrases: "past shadow time"; "the street lamp’s magic amber circle"; "Our mothers' calls never reached this far."

Thanks for sharing another great story.

[Delmar Cooper]

Thank you for reading and for the generous comments you made about this little story.

[Dave]

I really enjoyed this. Having been a teacher, forever. I wonder about the lessons these children could have learned from this woman. Children don't seem to understand that older people have lived and experienced so much. Many of them are more than willing to share those experiences with them. I have found that many older people enjoy th company of younger people.
Take care - Dave

[barleygirl]

This is amazing writing! I was under your spell from the get-go, your opening is so mesmerizing with it's smooth flow of creepy-esque slow-and-deliberate storytelling. Not only was I enjoying your story, but I was inspired for my upcoming Halloween writing, which I only wish could be as well-crafted as this. Many lessons here for all of us story weavers (((HUGS)))

[Delmar Cooper]

Thank you for reading and for leaving your generous comment. Happy Halloween.

[rew]

i think you've conjured up some magic here, some wizardry, this piece brought tears to my eyes, yup, bitter b***h that i am - there isn't the hint of a fault not one. the ending, i especially liked, the last half of the last paragraph but - the whole piece itself is poetic.

I'm glad that you've written this piece i guessed you'd have something good somewhere - you are a natural writer - that can be easily seen by the effortless ease (seemingly) you write your reviews (yes, i've been sniffing 'round elsewhere) so, i'll shut up, I'll not lard it ( the piece) with superlatives it doesn't need it can stick up for itself just by, being.
regards from rew

[Delmar Cooper]

Glad you read it, and glad you took it as is. Whatever it is to the reader that is just what the writer intended.

[rew]

cheers for that

[h d e rushin]

"witch" is that oft, misplaced word that children use to mean withdrawn, and all the spiteful
and malevolent ill will we attach to them is quite often just animus or a courageous governing spirit.
By this definition, on the street where I live, I am the childless witch who tends the animated
garden of spirit and light.

"I remember a white purity that seemed to glow, luminous in the dark." Which to me, is the
poet inside of you shaking itself loose from the will and direction of 'storytelling'; that there
is that point in a short story, however luscious, that the two continents (prose and poetry) must
meet like water moving from lake to river.

I believe in the existence of spirits separate from bodies. Your amazing.

dana

[Delmar Cooper]

I never meant the word to be so attention getting and the story began as a poem.

[JayceeC]

My mom was as close to this neighborhood witch as it gets...Every morning she was out in the yard puttering around with her plants or just sitting and watching them as she worked a crossword puzzle. She loved exotic or different plants, so we too had a Night Blooming Cereus. She had that plant for years before it bloomed and then my brother stayed up all night and took pictures almost like time-lapse photography. They do have a rather unique scent that seemed to linger a day or two after it bloomed.
The only real critique I have here Del is that when introduced the girl seems like a neighborhood kid. Like she was a regular member of the group. But at the end, she is the unknown and a bit haunted.
The ending is a bit rough too. If your going to end there why is it significant to the story? Do they play on the same street...It there a resident witch?

[Delmar Cooper]

Thank you for your kind thoughts and candid comments. This story was an experiment on several levels. The girls, the tall girl, the mothers and the old woman, nameless examples of life stages, the flower an example of the end of a stage and the beginning of another. The construction of the words is an experiment. All I need to do now if figure out how to make it a successful experiment.

[Alex Cook]

I liked it a lot. The kind of story I enjoy reading

[Delmar Cooper]

Thank you for reading and for your kind comment. I hope the story flowed smoothly and there were no places where your reader's eye was stopped. If my story kept your interest until the last period I was successful, at least with one reader, one time.

[AdamBankhurst]

Great imagery. This also brought back a memory of a similar experience from my childhood. We also had a neighbor who we thought may have been a "witch." This story took me back.

Keep up the great work!!!

[Nusquam Esse]

Again, I like your choice of imagery and how you describe things. Your first line is particularly poignant, I love the way you use 'routinely' in this sense, it really stands out. I honestly never stayed in an area for more than a few months growing up, so I never had any experiences like this; so I can't really relate. Still, it manages to carry a sense of foreboding nostalgia which I quite enjoyed. I like the idea of the 'lit circle' in which the children would play; darkness ebbing about.

[Delmar Cooper]

Thanks for reading. Everything is fiction, of course, but It could have happened. There are old people and there are children and there are flowers that bloom only once then wither and I suppose those people and things are pretty much everywhere. But, I do a lot of supposing.

[Woody]

Very nicely penned, Delmar. Smooth narration. I like it very much.