In the Dusk Where Mortals Play

As my aunt lies upon her bed, pale and fragile...

 

The summer sun walks heavily through the sky. A taste of charcoal fire permeates the deep, humid air, and my breath wrestles the wind in this wet heat.

     Up in her room my aunt lies upon her bed, pale and fragile. Even in her mortality there rests a graying grace.  Her ancient eyes once awaited the walls of this home as it was birthed so many seasons past.  Now its eyes await her dying dust with penetrating patience.  Setting aside her tray of food, I turn to exit as she gasps for another breath.  Frosted feather dust lines the cracked window pane, and I hear her feeble voice. “When does life become obsolete?”  I stand in subtle silence then slowly turn toward her aging frame.

     “Young man,” she coughs.  I gaze into her clouded gray eyes, nearly blind.

     “Do you need something, Ma’am?  Something to drink?”  I ask.  With this she claws at the sheets to support herself.

     “What I need, you cannot give me.  It is a gift that slips from me even now.”

     “A gift?”  My eyes rove and roam her chamber. She finally lifts herself to speak.

 

“Life is a gift

that no one can earn.

Though wasted or treasured

the proud humbly learn,

that nothing can halt

our future demise;

the fear of the Lord

will open our eyes.”

 

     At her words I step forward and speak. 

 

“My brother was born with a dream;

a song to move his feet.

And I was given a broom,

to clean where he strides the street.

Will Providence ever prevail

to turn the tide of the scale?”

 

     She rises as if renewed by a quickening daydream, and now speaks.  “Listen... oh, listen… Do you hear the spider weaving her webs?  Can you feel the joy of the Lark, or smell the fragrance of drifting pollen, or view the cresting waters on every earthly shore?  These things endure every day as we wander.  Even now their sounds and scents fill the earth.  Every moment...” she coughs and pauses to take a breath.  “Every moment of an ordinary day is full of wonderment, for the common is only a cloaked disguise of the divine.”  She lays back in a temporary taste of torment, then continues as her body shakes.

     “We live as emotional transients in a world of isolation.  Oh, if I could only borrow back so many wasted moments, but only the arrogant have no regrets; so much is paid for with borrowed time.

 

The infant road,

the child’s path,

in the rising tide of the day,

is the aged road

the dying path,

in the dusk where mortals play.”

 

     My aunt stops, then rises painfully and deliberately.  “I hope you have listened well to the learning words of a dying lady.”

     I step toward her feeble frame with anxious anger.  “May I say with no disrespect that I am my own tutor and mentor.  I am my own critic and judge.  I’ll weigh your words on my spirit’s scales.”

     “Beware that you don’t become self-infested, my dear one.  The bleating self is the soul’s demise; more a hindrance than an emancipator,” she says. “Your iconoclastic thunders may one day ring hollow.”

     Stinging fumes of wind breathe through her window and burn my throat, as I turn from her musty presence.

     Her voice in whispers speaks again.  “My life’s window is darkening each day.  Maybe one more day of living liberty, then you shall see your auntie no more in this frail frame.”  Her body slips back limply on her sheets and her gray eyes close in pausing pain as her body trembles.  Her tongue tries to taste her thirsting lips.

     With pity at the sight of her, as weak as a dying dog, I approach her now weeping and try to speak.  “What liberty is there in second-hand independence? No indelible mark is etched in the heart of a bird never caged. My gluttonous eyes would devour the world, and savor even the barren bones, yet I’ve been stranded in this pining place with no hope of flight.  Can you grant me any light to end this darking night?” 

            “And yet,” she whispers.  “And yet my flight is eerily imminent, though I am ready.

 

Pale and clouded, lying motionless;

winter’s fury, summer’s flame.

Faded faces, speaking shrilly,

wrestling, stalking in my mind.

Rising, weeping in a corner;

laughing, racing in a field.

Still and stable, screeching silence;

crawling age and creeping years.

I stand on winter’s crippling strand,

staring and shaking by the sight

of embering photos in a drawer,

bathed in memory’s dying dust.

And yet this moment I have peace,

for hope is seared inside my soul.”

 

     In a muted moment she drifts into a soundless sleep, and with the stinging echo of her words I turn and exit her darkened room, returning to the grating light of the porch; a light that pierces even to my bones.

 

Reviews

[emmajoy]

What a beautifully written, wonderful tale. It's like a myth, one told by an open fire, where people sit, listening to the wisest sage amongst them.

There's such wisdom in your tale: a display of arrogant sadness by the man given a broom but yet, knows it all: "May I say with no disrespect that I am my own tutor and mentor" .. .. the aunt's long-lived life and the knowledge she's gained through it as she passes into the winter of her days. 'I stand on winter's crippling strand,'

Not only is your prose smooth-sweet but so is your poetry.. you're very skilled in whatever you do.

Read it again. There's so much guidance here that it's probably best to come back and read this post a third and fourth time. Can only trust the nephew learned a true lesson as he closed the door behind him.

Thank you for sharing.

(Brother's comments ... great piece of writing: ' I stand on winter�s crippling strand, staring and shaking by the sight of embering photos in a drawer, bathed in memory�s dying dust ' Almost eastern in style and suggestion. The writer really knows his business.)

[Tate Morgan]

The story says so much of us at the end .How do we want to be remembered .?I for one waant to be remembered for how I lived .
Your new friend Tate

[Martin See]

it's such a poignant story personally for me because my late grandmother used to speak that way to me when she was in her eighties...your writing has always strike a chord in my heart...you possess a remarkable gift of presenting characters with depth and personality....indeed, a pleasure to read and reflect upon...

[Helen Woodward]

BRILLIANT!!! Get yourself published young man ASAP. This is magnificently formed with love and heart in abundance. A bedside death scene with a wealth of good advice/thoughts about mortality from both protagonists. I'm not sure if this is non-fiction, but it certainly sounds as if it is because of your soulful choice of wording.
I guess you can see that I loved this...very much!! It's going on my page.

Helen :-)

[Mary]

This is the best thing I've read in a long time and I read constantly. It actually captures the wisdom of a well aged dying woman which is remarkably to witness and I would believe almost impossible to describe until I read this.

[Sean Allen]

Just when I was thinking that all the great lines of poetry had already been written, you pen something as masterfully as this.

[Stacey Watts]

This was an amazing story. I enjoyed reading it. It reminds me of an old world type fable. Excellent piece.

[Cherrie Palmer]

I love stories like this, and this tale was beautifully done. Each part more lovely than the last. I hope everyone finds this little treasure. Cherrie

[LoLo]

Oh...my...god. I can barely breathe. This was so so beautiful. The whole story was poetry. I love the dialogue and the way these two characters interact. The view of life and death and beauty...all of it. So entrancing. This is going in my favorites! Thank you for sharing. You have an extraodinary talent!

[LisetteCanWrite!]

Wisdom flows so vividly.. paying a tribute to that of which shows great respect to an admired family member such as your aunt. Philosophy is portrayed through both written word as well as someone else mentioned a hue of native tale in the format (of course it's not native but the way it is told reminds one of the way native tales are depicted). This is a creative interlocking of more than one style in use; with great imaginative word use. One of the great things I like about your work is your ability to mesh styles, formats, philosophies and unique visions with both surreal and realistic principles. You stimulate readers minds, contour stories into extraordinary visions keeping it clean and make all whom read think as hard as they would like to at the time they are reading! Simplicity with complexity.. rolled into one. Loved the story.. I found it quite profound.. and moving. Your aunt challenges your views though you are set in your beliefs.. which really is a good thing that someone you connect with that can make you think both more intricately and delicately about life as well! The ending is filled with hope..in an ending. Thank you so much for sharing! =)

[The Rock And Roll Cowbo..]

A somewhat chilling piece and yet so philosophical, so many lessons of life can be taken from the story, it is great when you can entertain and make one think as you did hear.