Wednesday, August 25, 2010
I meandered to the other room and peeked in. Her mahogany curls sprawled randomly across the pillow just as they did when she was still an innocent child who happened to believe that she was a faerie. Her faith was compelling. Eventually I believed it to be true and wondered what I did to deserve being the mother of a faerie. Why me? I still do not know the answer.
I found an excuse to enter the room. I rifled through the drawer until I found my oversized gray sweatshirt and stood still. The intensity of the rain increased with my breathing. I approached the bed; she stirred. I leaned over her, close enough to smell her hair. Sweet. Always sweet.
Her wings – a bit awkward and large at first – were silky, opaque blue, white and silver. I don’t remember exactly when, but one day they fit perfectly. She frolicked about in warm rains, climbing on rocks and waving the wand that I made from a flawless oak branch, multi-colored satin ribbons and a small canister of metallic sprinkles attached to the end.
Her powers were not and are not limited. Her music makes me weep. The thought of it aches inside of me.
She began creating music on a tiny cello at the age of five, casting an infinite spell on those who listened and on the one who gave birth to her. Soon, the unfathomable, soulful voice found me, edging beyond the brass and silver that once sustained me.
We played together – mother and daughter, brown eyes to brown eyes – bows dancing across strings, from Frosty to Beethoven’s Fifth in a full symphony orchestra. Without this, my life would be devoid of passion.
She befriended flowers – mostly dandelions – and for some reason butterflies were not as high up in her order of things. Her magic charmed all that lived in the woods, fields, ponds and sometimes even the cats. Her magic captivated me. Her enchantment was born from her unwavering passion and loyalty to the little folk and earthy goodness.
Tattered wings – illuminated by experience – told her story through stitches and a string of small holes. One day the wings disappeared. We searched tirelessly for them. In my heart, I know of the reason for their disappearance. The act of writing words of such a jealous and vengeful deed empowers negativity, so it remains undeclared.
She became a faerie without wings.
I sipped my coffee, assured by the thought of her sleeping safely near me.
I have two sons. One sails the seas on old wooden ships, bringing honor to our ancestors and to those of us who know and love him in this life. The other has played the violin since he was able to embrace it. His music is of the gods.
Today was raw, raw enough to make a fire in the kitchen woodstove. The Yankee in me thrives on the ambient smoke of a wood fire. The perennial hermitess and Cancerian me loves a blazing hearth and peaceful home. It was decided; I would make a pot of soup on the stove as I did for so many winters.
We have gone away and come back and gone away again. My sailor shot the stars, bringing her home safely to the nest, then returned to his wooden ship.
When my son, the violinist, came into the kitchen, it startled me. In the midst of the moment, I forgot. We were somewhere between those times when it was enough for him to fiddle on the mountain and my sailor only dreamed of faraway places and my faerie had new wings. Home was where the rooster crowed every morning, calling us to our daily lessons and spicy stew simmering in the pot on the kitchen cook stove.
My violinist son stood beside me in the warm kitchen, the fire warded off bleak drizzle while I peeled the carrots for the pot. Mozart’s Fifth Violin concerto played in the background. Today, I was almost home.