Dawn Before Mourning

Purple is the color, purple is what makes gray, painters know it. In the spring, rain blooms it into the flowers. In hues of colors you don't see the color purple, but it's there. Sunsets and sunrises show hues of purple, along with the worst storm of t

 

            It is a humid miserable day, the heat index are already being broadcast across most of the central part of the state. The air conditioning feels warm and knew I had to keep driving my car to get there. Get to the places I didn’t care about. Motions I only make my body do most days, my mind usually is millions of miles away.

 

            On route this day, I came to the back of an old farm. A place I’ve been to so many times, and in my dreams. The water hit my face so hard it stung my cheeks and burnt my eyes. Perhaps it was because of the heat of the day and the difference of the temperature. But all the same, it stung like hell. I gasp for a breath and it didn’t come. I thought right there, that second I was sure I was going to die. My brain was going to shut down for lack of air and yet the stinging wouldn’t stop.

 

            Lucky enough I found a place to stop and rest. Someone in my mind was screaming words, “DAWN BEFORE MOURNING”. That’s all I heard. That’s all I’ve heard all evening. I asked out loud, “What is wrong with me? I can’t sleep or eat anymore. Why is this so hard?”

All I heard was, “DAWN BEFORE MOURNING”. I don’t understand why this is the dawn before mourning when my mourning started so long ago. Did this farm focus on the loss, the grief, the pain?

 

I saw my mother taking down the last load of linens on the clothes line in her knickers, white tennis shoes, and white a crisp striped ironed shirt. Her hair was done as it always was, and I saw her watch spark a shimmer in the heat of the sun and she stood in the grass my father just cut. He sat on the back porch watching her with a flyswatter in his hand. I knew the dishes were done and the house was tidy, all the windows had been washed, even the woodwork had a fresh coat of paint. I saw the garden on the side of the farm, solid straight rows. Sprouting tall. I watched my father help my mother in the house with the load as she sat it in the laundry room ready to iron for the next day. She came out to sit with my father, to listen to sounds of night. They did that you know, every night. After the news, it was time to listen to each other breathe and listen to the sounds of night. Sometimes when they thought no one could see them I caught them holding hands. I even caught my dad touching my mother’s leg once. Funny how they thought it was shameful. I thought it was charming.

 

When I rested I saw these things. Now that it is later, my visions are coming clearer.

 

My heart didn’t stop, my breath began again, but the stinging still remains.

My entries will be q

 

It is THE DAWN BEFORE MOURNING.

Reviews

[SM Davis]

JUDY!!!!! I have goose bumps! I love the description of the mother's hard work that seems to be more a labor of love. I love how the father watches...and how they share at the end of the evening. your imagery here is ... well... it's transcendent.

It is so hard to lose someone...but to have visions or flashbacks of this magnitude...I think they are gifts given to us by the loved one that has moved on. simply a fantastic read. Please give me more....

[Ken Simm.]

Remarkable. I agree with Susi a stunning set of omages. visual and textured.

[Jet Lag]

suzi forwarded this to me. great description and emotion. it feels as if there is more to tell. i'm looking for the first part to twist with the second part. i'm going to try and leave notes.

btw, what a coincidence. i just came in from my front porch where i edited a story about a man who talks abouthis love for his wife... i'm doing the story that follows "my husband, the terrible liar." he talks about how his wife's labors of love demonstrate her devotion to him, and he makes sure the house is still clean, even though she is passed on.

send me more!

[MrJodie]

Judy, this is incredible. So many can tell a tale. What you have done is so far beyond that it's magical. You have conveyed emotion in a way that I felt it. You have expressed love in a way that I experienced it. And, you have described the pain of grief and loss in a way that, though painful beyond measure, leaves the reader gasping right there, in the car, with you. My heart is still racing and I feel short of breath just sitting here, typing this.

As a writer, I could offer formatting changes... but I won't. Don't change anything, please. It's not my story to tell and you've done it justice in a way I don't feel qualified to comment on. Just know that your gift is appreciated. Thank you.