She Remembers the Day
She remembers the day that he was born, as she slowly and tenderly turns the musty pages of the old family album. Her sullen face quickly comes to life with a tender smile, as she turns the page. It was her favorite picture of him. She paused for a moment slowly placing her hand to his face. “He was just a baby then” she whispers. Tears began to fill her eyes.
Every time she looked at the old family album, she promised herself that she wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t help it. That is what mothers do. A lone tear trickled slowly down her face. With each passing second that she looked at his picture, another teardrop gently fell onto the page, like a soft summer rain.
Many years, and many tears, had faded what was written across the top in navy blue crayon. Her eyes could barely see the words written from a time long ago. She moves her forefinger deliberately and tenderly across each word. She called it drawing with her heart. “I love you “ she whispers, as she brings the album to her bosom, wrapping her arms gently around it, pretending if only for a moment, that he could somehow hear her.
It seemed like only yesterday, though it had been a lifetime, since he had come home.
He was grown now with a family all his own. He used to call her everyday. She looked forward to his call on her birthday. That was the day when Ellen and the children would get on the line with him. Everyone would always be talking at the same time. She loved laughing with them, crying with them, and at times, lecturing them in a way that only mothers could get away with. She wanted to protect them. She had wanted them to have the freedoms and liberties that she had only dreamed of, in the hearts and minds of other men.
Over the years, his calls became less and less frequent. She longed for the day when she would hear from him and the family again. She tried to call him but he had moved, and didn’t tell her.
She heard a gentle rasping at the door. She needed a cane to walk now, as her bones had become riddled with arthritis. She slowly made her way to the old oak door. She winced in pain as she tried to wrap her fingers around the knob. She slowly started to open the door, hoping by some miracle, that he would be standing there with the family. The rusty hinges on the door squeaked like a mouse from the many years of storms and neglect. Her heart smiled at thought of him as the door swung open. There was no one there. As she turned to walk back inside the house, she saw the wind chime dancing in the wind from the top corner of the porch. It must have been the wind that had called to her she thought. As she locked the door, and walked back to her bed, she paused for a moment. It had been the memories that had called out to her, from a time long ago. Her last words were “Come home”.BasicGreatGuy 2007 ( Robert S. Nowell III )