Fever

I hope we are using the term "story" loosely...

I suppose there is something romantic about hands reaching into the river Jordan, searching for something other than water. I have never been practical enough to believe that water is just water, an accident of the cosmos reacting to covalent bonds and ionized atoms or whatever galactic force bonds them together at this distance from the sun.

While I ponder this my eyes move over. There are emails on my phone from work. I am not surprised by my indifference. Eyes move back to watch my children sweating, sleeping from fever, not accommodating my office. It seems at work their water is rising, and they don't know that they don't need me to save them this time.

Coffee is kind to me. My favorite cup's handle is shaped like a hollow ear, molded and painted over. My hand glides through and around the warm curve reminding me of their mother, and quickly I am aware that she is as gone as a wave on a river. Even the miracle water of Jordan won't cure her, but I wonder as I daub their foreheads with cool water from the tap, could it cure my darling girls?  I would be grateful for water that was not just water, to soak into my babies and bring back their mother's smile, letting them rest like a serene lake rather than hot springs bubbling up at the surface.

The phone buzzes again on the table impatiently. My cup sits, anticipating nothing. I kiss their foreheads because my mother kissed mine while I was sick. The youngest opens her eyes and I smile while they don't notice me and close again. She licks her lips. Cool water streams into a glass from the spigot, cracking the ice. 

"Here princess, " I say lifting the back of her head with my palm. "Drink this," as assuring as I can. Her eyes open just long enough to determine the distance between her mouth and the water and takes a little, licks her sweet little lips, and guides my hand back to her pillow.

The snow is falling thicker outside. Some think it strange when I say I can 'hear' snow. Tiny particles of ice colliding sound like sand being quietly sifted. I can only hear it when everything else is still. My eyes move from the window and back to the girls. The oldest hasn't stirred. The power blinks off, on for an instant, and back out. 

Fumes from a kerosene heater igniting mean I'll open the front door long enough for them to escape. Flakes settle on top of one another and freeze together. Everything else is still. It sounds like sizzling needle points barely tapping angel wings. The oldest stirs, closes her mouth, and rolls over on her side. I put some jugs of water I'd just filled outside to cool, close the door, put the coffee pot on top of the kerosene heater, and sit at the kitchen table. I am settled in, waiting for their fever to break.

Reviews

[DaughterNature]

The imagery here is really stunning, I like how you appealed to multiple senses. I too love the sound of snow! While I think this is a lovely and stirring vignette, I wonder why the speaker is telling us all this -- where is the image going?

[Frieda P]

Well you sure do know how to color outside of the lines, and so vividly too. I'm almost positive I smell coffee and kerosene fumes....simply brilliant read. You mean there are people that can't hear snow, huh? Kudos xavier.

[Chris]

Disjointed, unfocused, drifting... the taste of real and family. I'ld turn the page and continue.

[emmajoy]

' Coffee is kind to me. My favorite cup's handle is shaped like a hollow ear, molded and painted over. My hand glides through and around the warm curve reminding me of their mother, and quickly I am aware that she is as gone as a wave on a river. '

There are so many beautiful areas in this 'story', so fragile their liquidity. You've created a sort of old-worlde sadness yet wrapped it in the water theme, which, for me ever suggests growth, rebirth. In spite of the past - perhaps present, tragedy, there's a spiritual aura wrapped around your words, a kind of calmness, locked in a space holding its breath.

[Mollie Fitzner]

And I wonder--what was supposedly in the Irish waters that Annie Sullivan's intoxicated father thought would cure her fallen eyes. And the spittle, water as well, that Jesus used to restore sight to a blind man? And the water into which we are dunked, that reminds us, that our sins our dead because Jesus saved us from them??????

[AYVID N]

Very well crafted narration Xavier. The scenes brought to mind are vivid and the chapter keeps the reader very engaged. Please write on.

[songstress]

I agree with KLGoode, you really do now how to set the scene and the way you lace the water and life throughout the story makes for a great depth in the piece. If you continue with this piece, I believe you can take this wonderful work to many places.

[m.s.early]

(: so nice of you to say songstress. thank you for reading :)

[Lyn Anderson]

You have a beautiful, visually clear way of writing a story that brings it to life.

[m.s.early]

(: thank you kl :)

[Linda alexander]

Her eyes open just long enough to determine the distance between her mouth and the water and takes a little, licks her sweet little lips
Great write, can fully visualize the situation as if reader is in the same house, fond memories of the kid's mother added more impact to story, every move is tried to be portrayed as clear as possible, enjoyed

[m.s.early]

(: thank you linda :)