Chapter 1

Mother’s hands, Robin thought, were perfect.  Though placidly white, her fingers were long and delicate, and surprisingly young-looking despite her condition.  He had seen them so many times; washing dishes, smoothing her worn dress, holding him closely as a child when he was on the verge of sleep.  They looked angelic in contrast to everything she touched.  And now they were in his own, cold and limp.

He laid them carefully on her stomach, taking one last look at her serene face.  The funeral director was waiting for him outside to arrange the details.  It was all too soon, Robin thought. 

He left her and stepped through the silk curtain that hung in place of their door.  It occurred to him that this was the last time he would see his mother, and he couldn’t help the tears that began to run down his face.  He steadied himself on a shelf, its items clinking together at the disruption. 

It’s as if time had stopped for him all at once.  His life would no longer be how it was, and he had not yet had the time to figure out what he was going to do.  The red stains on his face and wet, three-day-old clothes were evidence.         

He could not bring himself to greet the man who sat at the desk in front of him.  The man’s wrinkly-lidded eyes fluttered to him for a moment, but then looked down once again, as if they had seen nothing.  Robin supposed that, to him, he was quite close to nothing.

The old man was once called his father, although the name had become foreign by now.  The day he walked out the door, he had left that label behind, as if crushing it along with the dried leaves he stepped on as his wife cried out for him.

Robin did not know him.

He made his way outside, finding the funeral director there.  There were long lists of guests to read through, flowers to choose, sweet songs to find. 

“And where do you want it to be held sir?” the solemn-looking director asked him.

Robin knew this one already.  “The docks.”

* * *

Ships flowed in and out, seagulls greeting them with their fluttering.  The sky was white and misty, the air damp.  A young girl was singing a familiar song.  Its tune was bright and vivid to Robin, contrasting with the black-clothed people that gathered.  It was one his mother sang to him.

 

“Gentle and wild, gentle and wild

Like the waves of the ocean you are, my child

Bathed in sweet water, you lay in my arms

And like the birds overhead, you may fear no harm

 

Gentle and wild, gentle and wild

Like the waves of the ocean you are, my child

One sun-clad morning we’ll sail out to sea

And then you may sing this lullaby to me.”

 

Robin watched the wispy clouds disperse as he mounted the carriage.  He was heading home.  But home, he knew, was a different thing now. 

The horses halted at the storefront.  He found himself pressed against the cool glass window of the shop, gazing despairingly into it. 

The antique shop that he and his mother owned sat right on the most crowded road in the village.  Its business was growing despite its petite size and widely eclectic variety of things.  Mother had always said she was proud of it, even when it wasn’t doing well.  Even when she had to borrow soap from the neighbors and make a loaf of bread last for weeks.  When they finally started gaining more customers, she would cry about how grateful she was.

They lived in the few rooms that were connected to the back of the shop.  It only contained a small kitchen and two beds, but they always made do. 

He opened the door reluctantly, the old store bell chiming in response.  His father was still sitting on the far wall at the desk, looking down at random masses of parchment.  He looked up when Robin entered and let out a hasty “hello.”

“Hi,” Robin answered, and turned to go to his room.

“Wait one moment,” his father grunted.

Robin stood, unmoving. 

“Now boy, I want you to understand the responsibilities you have in keeping this shop.  Make sure you dust everything everyday before customers arrive,” he said as he scribbled something on his parchment.  “And when you do the laundry, don’t wring out my vest.  You know I don’t like that.”

Actually, I don’t know, Robin thought.  And he also had no idea what laundry had to do with the shop.  But with these thoughts he still responded “Yes sir.”

          “And I want all of your precious mother’s things out of here before tomorrow.”

          Robin narrowed his eyes at him.  The old man looked grossly smug as he continued his writing. 

          “No.”

          “What was that?  No?  Boy, I don’t think you know who you’re squabbling at here.”

          “You’re right,” Robin asserted. “I don’t.”  He swiftly turned and strode into his room.

          His father had no right to be here.  He hated it.  The fact that he had not seen his face for 18 whole years was one thing, but that he comes and drives sharp, painful nails into what was once a small, happy, protected life was unbearable.  The papers said that his father had the right to the shop.  Because what?  He was married to a woman for a year?  Robin dove into his bed, angry sweat beading on his forehead. 

          Sleepiness began to drown some of the anger as his muscled sunk into the mattress. 

          “Mother, why did you have to leave me now?” He moaned silently.  And his pillow began to dampen with tears once again.

          He heard a knock on the door.  None other than his father, he guessed.

          “Don’t forget, all of your mother’s things out, tonight.”

          Robin chucked his pillow at the door.  It made no sound.

          His father didn’t wait for a response.  He added, “Oh, but leave those shoes.  You hear?  They might be valuable.”

          At this, Robin knew what he must do. 

After his father was asleep, he gathered his mother’s belongings and buried them at the side of the shop.  As the moon began to peak, he fell asleep, the shoes tucked close to his chest.

Author's Note

This is a VERY basic outline. Not very many details/flow yet. But give me any input you can. Thanks!