Flash Fiction: On The Shore
Oct. 3rd, 2009 01:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wyld_dandelyonChloe sat at the shoreline, wiggling a bit to relieve the ache from her arthritis. The searing heat from the sun and sand helped the pain, a little, though the tide was coming in, and soon Lake Michigan’s icy-cold water would wash upward to where she was sitting.
She stretched a hand out, trailed a finger through the wet sand, idly drawing a house, a snug little cottage, with cheerful flowers—a wave came and washed over the lines, filling them, and washed out again, leaving the sand smooth. So much of life seemed like that these days, all of her work washed away by time. Dishes cleaned became dirty; laundry neatly folded became soiled; even things stored carefully could be washed away by time, like the holiday tablecloth that had become a mouse’s nest, and now had holes and stains and mildew where she and her sisters had lovingly embroidered sugarplums (the fairy kind) amid holly and ivy.
If she died today, the sands of time would fill her footprints very quickly; she’d never built anything, never written a great novel or recorded a rock song, never starred in a movie or walked on the moon. Her family would mourn her, of course, but their lives would go on. They would sit around the table and laugh as she and her sisters had laughed, while they embroidered that tablecloth. It had been done in secret, while their mother was working, and earned them repeated scoldings for putting off their homework until after dinner. Chloe smiled for a moment, remembering her mother lecturing them, and her tears on that Christmas morning.
The tablecloth was old, of course, like Chloe herself. The bright thread had faded, and the linen yellowed. If the mouse had found it when she was young, she might have laughed, made another one. But her fingers were no longer nimble, and her sisters had passed on. Was it time for her to join them? She was strong enough, still, to stand and walk out into the water, to swim out quite a ways. She could let the cold numb her; when she became too tired to swim, if she relaxed, the end would be quick.
She shifted again, leaning hard into the sand with both hands, and stretched her legs out. The left hand was covered by hot, dry sand, and she left it there. Her right hand left a deep imprint in the wet sand. She let the cold water wash over it, achingly cold now, with the arthritis, but still, she felt the familiar thrill of joy from being both hot and cold, wet and dry.
Death had scared her when she was younger. She remembered when her grandmother had pneumonia. It had been Christmastime, and the old lady had come to the table, too sick to eat much, but not too sick to marvel aloud, as she did every year, complimenting the bright stitches. Chloe had tried to persuade her to remain in bed, but Grandmother said being with the family was better medicine than every pill the doctors prescribed. Chloe had been unable to take pleasure in her presents until her grandmother had recovered.
How odd it was to sit here now and contemplate her own death, and to realize the fear had somehow been washed away; to know that when it was time, she could go gently. To wonder, is it time? And to feel . . . what was it she felt? Contentment? Anticipation? She wasn’t sure.
Ah, now that rang true, like it was an answer of sorts.
And then footsteps in the sand, a small form, hugging her from behind. A different answer, but maybe a more important one.
“Gram-mee! Gram-mee!” Chloe’s granddaughter, also Chloe, kissed her on the cheek.
“Mom, what are you doing out here?”
“It’s my favorite beach. I’m sitting in the sun, enjoying a warm Autumn day.”
Little Chloe splashed into the water, scooping up sand and pouring it on her grandmother’s feet. Chloe smiled, though the cold made her arches ache.
“You could catch your death out here.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Chloe didn’t think Karen was ready to actually talk about her death. “Not today, anyway.”
“Look, Gram-mee!” Little Chloe held out a muddy hand, “A shell!”
Chloe admired the shell, and agreed to keep it safe, while Karen sat down. “Ow! I don’t know why you like this beach so much.”
“You don’t have arthritis.”
“And you didn’t either, when you brought us here every summer, when I was a kid.”
Chloe nodded. It was true. She liked the contrast between the hot sand and the cold water, and always had. “So, what brings you here?”
“I took our tablecloth in to the restorer; you were right, it can’t be fixed. But they can save nearly all the embroidery, and all the fairies. I’m going to have each piece framed, so all the cousins can have part of it. And they’re going to treat and seal them—if we keep them safe, and out of the sun, Chloe’s great-great-grandkids will be able to enjoy them.”
Chloe looked at her daughter’s shining eyes, and at the shell, so like the shells she’d gathered here when she was tiny. Maybe she did have a legacy to leave, still. She pretended to frown. “You’re going to bug me again to record the stories of making that tablecloth, aren’t you?”
“I sure am. And I’m not going to take no for an answer.”
Chloe smiled, “I’d like that,” and was rewarded by a big, warm smile. That warmth helped her aches more than the sunlight.
Smiles and laughter could be so fleeting, she thought. Their warmth made a sharp contrast to the eternal cold of death.
Chloe decided to take her time on death’s shore, savoring those contrasts, though it might take years to properly appreciate them.
Copyright 2009 Deirdre M. Murphy
______________________
I hope to hear from you!
And if you like this story, please feel free to share the link with your friends.
She stretched a hand out, trailed a finger through the wet sand, idly drawing a house, a snug little cottage, with cheerful flowers—a wave came and washed over the lines, filling them, and washed out again, leaving the sand smooth. So much of life seemed like that these days, all of her work washed away by time. Dishes cleaned became dirty; laundry neatly folded became soiled; even things stored carefully could be washed away by time, like the holiday tablecloth that had become a mouse’s nest, and now had holes and stains and mildew where she and her sisters had lovingly embroidered sugarplums (the fairy kind) amid holly and ivy.
If she died today, the sands of time would fill her footprints very quickly; she’d never built anything, never written a great novel or recorded a rock song, never starred in a movie or walked on the moon. Her family would mourn her, of course, but their lives would go on. They would sit around the table and laugh as she and her sisters had laughed, while they embroidered that tablecloth. It had been done in secret, while their mother was working, and earned them repeated scoldings for putting off their homework until after dinner. Chloe smiled for a moment, remembering her mother lecturing them, and her tears on that Christmas morning.The tablecloth was old, of course, like Chloe herself. The bright thread had faded, and the linen yellowed. If the mouse had found it when she was young, she might have laughed, made another one. But her fingers were no longer nimble, and her sisters had passed on. Was it time for her to join them? She was strong enough, still, to stand and walk out into the water, to swim out quite a ways. She could let the cold numb her; when she became too tired to swim, if she relaxed, the end would be quick.
She shifted again, leaning hard into the sand with both hands, and stretched her legs out. The left hand was covered by hot, dry sand, and she left it there. Her right hand left a deep imprint in the wet sand. She let the cold water wash over it, achingly cold now, with the arthritis, but still, she felt the familiar thrill of joy from being both hot and cold, wet and dry.
Death had scared her when she was younger. She remembered when her grandmother had pneumonia. It had been Christmastime, and the old lady had come to the table, too sick to eat much, but not too sick to marvel aloud, as she did every year, complimenting the bright stitches. Chloe had tried to persuade her to remain in bed, but Grandmother said being with the family was better medicine than every pill the doctors prescribed. Chloe had been unable to take pleasure in her presents until her grandmother had recovered.
How odd it was to sit here now and contemplate her own death, and to realize the fear had somehow been washed away; to know that when it was time, she could go gently. To wonder, is it time? And to feel . . . what was it she felt? Contentment? Anticipation? She wasn’t sure.
Ah, now that rang true, like it was an answer of sorts.
And then footsteps in the sand, a small form, hugging her from behind. A different answer, but maybe a more important one.
“Gram-mee! Gram-mee!” Chloe’s granddaughter, also Chloe, kissed her on the cheek.
“Mom, what are you doing out here?”
“It’s my favorite beach. I’m sitting in the sun, enjoying a warm Autumn day.”
Little Chloe splashed into the water, scooping up sand and pouring it on her grandmother’s feet. Chloe smiled, though the cold made her arches ache.
“You could catch your death out here.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Chloe didn’t think Karen was ready to actually talk about her death. “Not today, anyway.”
“Look, Gram-mee!” Little Chloe held out a muddy hand, “A shell!”
Chloe admired the shell, and agreed to keep it safe, while Karen sat down. “Ow! I don’t know why you like this beach so much.”
“You don’t have arthritis.”
“And you didn’t either, when you brought us here every summer, when I was a kid.”
Chloe nodded. It was true. She liked the contrast between the hot sand and the cold water, and always had. “So, what brings you here?”
“I took our tablecloth in to the restorer; you were right, it can’t be fixed. But they can save nearly all the embroidery, and all the fairies. I’m going to have each piece framed, so all the cousins can have part of it. And they’re going to treat and seal them—if we keep them safe, and out of the sun, Chloe’s great-great-grandkids will be able to enjoy them.”
Chloe looked at her daughter’s shining eyes, and at the shell, so like the shells she’d gathered here when she was tiny. Maybe she did have a legacy to leave, still. She pretended to frown. “You’re going to bug me again to record the stories of making that tablecloth, aren’t you?”
“I sure am. And I’m not going to take no for an answer.”
Chloe smiled, “I’d like that,” and was rewarded by a big, warm smile. That warmth helped her aches more than the sunlight.
Smiles and laughter could be so fleeting, she thought. Their warmth made a sharp contrast to the eternal cold of death.
Chloe decided to take her time on death’s shore, savoring those contrasts, though it might take years to properly appreciate them.
Copyright 2009 Deirdre M. Murphy
______________________
I hope to hear from you!
And if you like this story, please feel free to share the link with your friends.
