Sofia's Concerto in Melancholy Minor

Sofia sits in her rocking chair by her dusty pane and listens as her thoughts scream at her and she nods in agreement and mumbles incoherent commentary.
Sofia reaches out and touches her finger tips, suddenly tapping lightly on the pane staring at dust particles – skin’s history – fall to the wooden ledge. Sofia nods, seemingly satisfied
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
she strums in rhythmic patterns. She is somewhere in her brain, lost in the plains of her mind, caught somewhere between nerve leaps and electrical currents, and visual compliance and temporal existence.
Sofia hears the soft soothing of the violin with the low vibration of a Bb clarinet playing in a soft, tonal accompaniment of the 1st octave below middle C. Harmonies, Sofia sways. The Bass clarinet appears, sharing octaves with a deep, full tidal wave that encompasses the piece and the players.
Finger strums slow and she begins to follow the graceful flow of the black lines, dashes, circles and calligraphic writings.
Tap
Tap tap
Tap tap tap
Tap
Tap
Tap
Tap Tap
Tap Tap
Sofia sees the second chairs watch her, waiting for the nod, the acknowledgement of their part. Swells and high tides, low tides and drowning envelop the players. Sofia breathes and feels music escape, art please her. Energies are thrown back and forth between fingers and strings, keys and fingers. Her head nods,
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap
Tap
second chairs join her and now they tug-of-war, hide-and-seek, red-light, green-light the piece, taking turns at letting each player toss a melody and feel up a vibrato, softly caressing a decrescendo, and climaxing the fermata, sustaining the pleasures of each. Players look at, eyes meet, Sofia’s. Release and sigh in sweet, satisfied resolve.
Soft fall, whisper drop of hand as Sofia’s fingers leave the window pane, the keys of her instrument, the past of her livelihood. Eyes wander, left, right, still, back to center – memory lapse, total recall of falsities.

Brenan once loved Sofia. Brenan stares at a once alive woman and a soft glaze slides across his eyes, remembrance and hatred, guilt and sadness swallowing him, becoming his whole body.
Brenan stares in wonderment at his lover, lost at sea, clashing realities at the doorway. Dare he step in? Dare he exist?
Brenan watches as Sofia rocks, watches as she nods, strums, taps, and comments on her reality. Hesitatingly, steps in.
Brenan stares at Sofia on the stage, the way her dress seems to flow onto the floor, the cascades of silk, the twinkle of her polished keys; Sofia’s nod, soft, empowering. From below, Brenan looks up. Sofia will not see him past the lights. Brenan can judge and love without her knowledge. Brenan sees and lies to himself about the feelings running through his thoughts. Sofia will not know. Ever. Eyes avert to the Bass clarinetist. Beauty radiates from her; the soft rise of chest and exhale of the music that escapes her very center.
Eyes meet, instruments drop softly into laps, and Sofia leads into another piece, another concerto, another solo, another duet, and ultimately, another ensemble. Gracefulness escapes the players, the instrumentalists. The lives of women escape their fingers, dig into keys, and slide across strings, up the bow, and out the bells; women who follow Sofia.

Fingers grasping at the crinkled, sweat-soaked sheets. Whispers of covers sliding underneath and all around the bodies. Soft scratching of fabric against skin as love is transferred from being to being, body to body. Quickly the head is thrown back, the neck is strained, each vein, each curve and bend is exposed; over exposed. Eyes shut so tight, lids are crinkled. White dots appear at the corners of the lips as the mouth is stretched tightly in silent pleasure. Quick part of lips to smile, breathing quickened. Head whips from side to side, hair is long, messy, sweaty, frizzy from sheet static, sex crazed. And it starts. That feeling. From below there is intense tingling, as if being tickled from the inside out, nerves awakening and screaming. Moving up into the belly button and muscle twitch from inside, between legs, followed by many more muscle twitches and pulses. Pan to face and watch it become suddenly relaxed, pleasure known only to the beholder and only imagined to the performer, the entertainer. Chest rising and falling, sharp intakes with each muscle twitch, muscle pull, muscle loosen. Grasping fingers, twisting wrists, tight arms, rigid body, quick, short breathing, mouth wide open, eyes clasped shut, full lips forming not a smile but an “O” and brows are furrowing and head whipping back and forth as hair is heard scraping across the sheets that no longer whisper but scream. Sheets screaming for them and for the mouth that cannot scream because the neck throws back and it strains and the lungs tighten and the stomach not moving and the legs they shake and the muscles twitch and quiver and then it escapes, soft and instantly loud and over and over sung and legs keep shaking and the stomach, it quivers and the brow stays furrowed and the head it bends down towards the stomach and the eyes they open – wide and staring at this moment of incredible pleasure and the neck it throws the head back and lets the throat scream and moan and let out all sound until satisfied. The moans turn into groans which turn into grunts which turn into low growls and outbursts of desire as hips rock and thrust. The covers are floating to the ground and unnoticed. The whispers that became screams are now squeaks of metal on wood and accompanied by momentary spasms of words out of throats that are strained. Foreheads are beaded in sweat and chests are rising, falling, pausing, and rising again. Intakes and exhales –heard sharply within the sanctuary of the room. Moans and passions fly around the room, knocking into lampshades and bouncing off the windows, knocking against the closet doors and skidding across the hardwood floors. Stomach tightens, whites around the mouth appear and give way to open mouth and smiling lips as screams escape and pillows are thrown with a soft thump upon the floors. Sensitive nerves are exposed and touched and teased. Body becomes rigid and shakes, falling just as quickly as it rose into complete and utter satisfied exhaustion.
Brenan remembers the quickness of breath, the way she brought music into every part of their life together. Every movement of hers sang out and every touch like striking a harmonious chord. Sex with her was like listening to Cello Suite No. 1. The energy that emerged between their two bodies – Surpassing love making, it became a creation of energy, a making of another universal, orgasmic, musical, and earthly…something. It, whatever “it” was, was beyond words, beyond Brenan’s comprehension.

Sofia looks out the window, feeling the sun warm her lap and feels the heat of the stage lights, the intense glow that causes her brow to furrow and begins a tiny ache just above her right brow. Sofia’s eyes raise, meet the violinist’s and sparkle with excitement. Their melodious duet that excites the audience and fills the auditorium with fiery energy is felt throughout the fingers that key and the arm that bows, the necks that bow, and the eyes that frantically scan. Each body sway is calculated simultaneously and subconsciously. Sofia follows the staff, the steady paces, and remembers what she saw.
Crescendo to A major, soft touch of fingers to arm, eyes meeting, slight turn of lips, rush of pink cheeks; ritardando of realization; fermata of steady gazes; subito to whisper intake of breath; key change to minor, fermata of loathing. Sofia decrescendos into quiet harmony with the bass clarinet, feeling the slow sadness closing in on her.
The warmth of the sun makes her hands too hot, her palms too clammy, and her brow ache. Eyes avert left, away from dusty panes, and the dark paneling of the wood floors beneath her flowing dress that covers the ground around her chair stare back at her. The heat on her hands, the sweat beads beginning on her forehead. Ovation. Stand. Bow. Walking slowly off the stage, down the steps, touch of fingers on her shoulder, Sofia meets Brenan’s eyes.

Brenan stares at her as she raises her gaze to his. Heart stammers, his lips move in confusion as he attempts to speak to her. Sofia looks into his eyes as she slips underneath his fingers, feeling their soft, calloused pads slide across her shoulder. Suddenly, recognition. Sofia furrows brow and stares at Brenan, accusing him of all she knows to be true. Brenan removes his hand from Sofia’s shoulder and for a slight moment, wonders if Sofia knew. Guilt overtakes him and Brenan looks away, remembering those days in between the covers, but it is not Sofia’s face that he sees under the covers with him.

Sofia walks away and stares into the dusty panes once again. Her reflection shows her face on that night, her sorrow. An unbridled pain that seems to radiate from her very soul tears her heart apart. She lifts her hand into the air, staring out the window and waves a taxi. Sofia opens the cab’s door and climbs into a confined space smelling of thousands of perfumes and an undertone of body odor. Realizing she left her purse back at the hall, she tells the cabbie to turn around. As she runs up the stairs, Sofia runs into Charlotte. Words exchanged but not quite heard. Pleasantries turned to accusations. A shove of the hand, a stumble back, accusations and insults fly around them, a climax of anger and physical exclamation. Sofia stumbles backward and slips. Charlotte screams her name and reaches out in uncontrolled, involuntary muscle movement. The hands that touched Brenan, that betrayed Sofia, that made music with Sofia, reach out to save her.
Falling, she realizes there is nothing she can do but let go, accept that she is falling, that she will end up at the bottom. Charlotte covers her mouth and her eyes, wide with fear, watch as Sofia’s head hits a stair and Sofia somersaults her way down the steps, landing in a contortion of silk and twisted limbs. Brenan runs to the landing, sees Charlotte, sees Sofia, and runs down. Eyes unopened, limp, hardly breathing.

Brenan paces the hallway of the hospital. Knowledge of the damage has put him in a sense of panic. Guilt, happiness, hope, love, hatred, and loathing fill him. He had an affair, he hurt Sofia, but perhaps now he will be able to be with Charlotte, perhaps now he will be rid of Sofia and he doesn’t have to tell her. But how does he leave a woman who radiates beauty like her? How does he look at her, helpless, and walk away? He hates Sofia for making him feel this way. Paces stop. How could he hate her? What has she done? Karma has taken this out on her as a punishment for him. Hesitated resolve. Choice made. He must stay. Brenan breathes a sigh of guilted relief.

Sofia moves her hand to her head, feeling the loose braid that was put there, but does not remember by whom. She runs her fingers along her right temple. Fingers glide across a scar, but they do not recognize the skin, smooth now, once rough. Fingers fall with soft whisper back into the lap, the chair continues to rock, and Sofia stares out the dusty pane, into the sun, past her reflection, and into the audience of the concert hall. Eyes on her, she meets those of the violinist’s and with a slight nod, Sofia’s fingers lift to the pane, keying her solo, creating music, waiting for her duet to start and the bass clarinetist to join with the second chairs
Tap
Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap
subito pianissimo.

Written While Listening to Cello Suite No. 1

Oh my God. She said, Oh my God, I thought that was a joint. Hahahaha. I replied. I looked down at the produce sticker I had taken off my Braeburn apple and rolled unconsciously into Yes, you guessed it, a very small, very miniature, but perfect imitation of, a joint. Hahahaha. I can see that, I say. Sitting here, without my laptop battery charger, checking my battery power in the top right corner of my task bar, I keep reminiscing about last night’s special brownie that he gave me and the giant joint he rolled for us that I smoked half of and she smoke the other half. I keep thinking about the burn, the sweet stench that only Mary Jane, Mary-J, MJ, whatever you wish to call it, can call claimsies to. I remember the dancing. The screaming and sliding around on the hardwood floors. “Jeremiah was a bullfrog! Da-da DA!” I smirk and glance nervously around the café to make sure no one saw me laugh like a crazy person. I remember when he (her boyfriend) came in and then he (the roommate that I’m dating but not, more like “friends” but not, so fuck buddies but potential) walks in and I’m high from the giant joint and high from the brownie so I’m stoned, he says. You’re stoned, he said. Hahahaha. Yeh, I reply. I’m stoned, yes, I think. I continue to watch Steve Carell. God, what a hairy Zeus. I want to worship his body. 40 Year Old Virgin could not have been better cast. He’s hot, I say. I smoked pot last night, he states. I turn around. I smoked it I took three hits from him. I’m open mouthed, agape, flabbergasted. I can’t believe he did that. Somehow he is less attractive. I’m scared now. But more turned on by the fact that my stoned hormones are now fiery and horny, burning a pleasurable, tingling hole through the walls of my vagina and I want to hop on his lap and pull his shirt off and trace his tattoo, Hail Mary Full of Grace, from collar bone left to collar bone right, run my finger down his stomach and under his pants. I want to surprise him and have him put me under him, take my shirt off, admire my breasts, I know they’re great, I’m not vain, everyone says they are. I see him kiss my neck, my chest, my bra line, nudge the fabric away and kiss me, trail down my stomach and tease me. No kissing, he doesn’t kiss. Fuck buddies. But he’ll thank me for sleeping because it gets lonely sometimes. Potential. In the morning he’ll sleep til noon or after and I’ll lay awake from sunrise til sunshine peak alone with him snoring. Adorable. “Friends.” All this I imagine in horny bliss while sitting on the chair a foot from the TV with the hot Steve “Zeus” Carell and he is behind me on the bed, my mouth still agape in turned on aw and they are standing laughing at my face and he shakes his head, gulps from his Coors Light and smiles at me. His nose is broken. He drinks too much. He’s an addict. Or was. Is? I don’t know how this wording works. His forehead is too big, his hair receded, tall which is nice but red in the face which is sunburn I think? and he is kind of rude but has a great laugh and he smells amazing and I love that when I go home I smell like him for a little while longer and if I sleep under his covers and on his pillow and against his skin and tangle our legs and lay upon his chest I leave the next day smelling all day like him and I like it but I don’t because I know I shouldn’t. You have a pattern she told me. You have a pattern my mom said. They are all alike, all the guys. I know this to be true, but while I sit in my chair and watch him and analyze, scrutinize, dramatize, and fantasize him all while stoned I don’t care because I like him and I know it may be a pattern but it’s him and I like all of him, not parts of him, and I’m attracted to him and he is me. We may not kiss or hug or hold hands but I have tons of apathy and I get it because that’s what I do I see the other side not judge and I go back and I call because I like sex and especially when I’m high and horny and he doesn’t like me high because I can’t possibly like myself high, right? but I do and I don’t give a flying fuck what he thinks because I like myself, except not and he can see that I don’t I’m sure because he’s smart and has a degree and drives a nice car I mean truck (the last has nothing to do with the proceeding) and I like sex with him in all positions and I wish he would kiss me but then that would be bad, right? I’m not sure, I think it would. But it doesn’t matter because I want to lay in his bed and though he doesn’t hold me like I wish he would it is nice, he is right, it is nice to lay next to someone, just to know that the bed made for two, which usually holds just one, is filled with two and four arms and four legs and 20 toes and 20 fingers and two hearts and four lungs. You’re wild he said. Hahaha What do you mean? I am sly and know what he meant but he turns around, naked, on the edge of the bed, stares at me, naked, with my hair sex-crazed and frizzy and I know I look hot and he I’m sure is thinking the same, and he smiles and says You know what I mean and I do, I know what he means. But I want to hear it confirmed. I remember all this, visualize on this, in a chair, in his bedroom (not his but the boyfriend, not my boyfriend/friend/fuck buddy/potential but hers), still staring he thinks they think I’m stoned out of my mind but I’m in my mind right mind, sober mind with stoned tinglies and I’m reminiscing/fantasizing about his penis and my vagina becoming friends and sure enough I’m horny and though we move to his room we do nothing but watch McClintok You like Westerns? Yes I do. I love John Wayne I reply and we continue to glance and stare at each other, smile and laugh at each other, small talk, high talk with each other, and I leave I don’t look at him because I want to jump on him and so I say Bye with my eyes out the door, my body in his fingers and I get in my car and I leave and I wish and then I want McDonald’s Hotcakes.

Almonds

This look of sultry, “please fuck me,” “I dare you to make an advance,” escaped her pupils. But it wasn’t just her pupils that forced me to freeze, solitary and astute in one my place. It was the perfect almond shape that slightly squinted, unblinking. It was when the almonds, draped in thick black, long, curled lashes slowly dropped and suddenly I was released from their bondage, but only for a lifelong second. When they lifted and parted once one long black line and suddenly, carefully two, they captured me and tied me up and held me, standing right there in my spot, unmoving, still, silent, hard. And oh, how those almonds knew. They laughed at me and taunted me; they questioned me and challenged me. They begged me and pushed me. They harnessed me, kept me, beckoning my every molecule and pore. It was the way the corners of the tear drops dipped down into her nose, almost giving an illusion of her eyes heading in separate directions, taking off, with me left alone and unsatisfied, confused and abandoned. She saw me, knew me, and was way ahead of me in this game of uncomfortable pleasurable torture. I grew hot as she continued to stand there, in all her beauty, but seeing none of her, only the almonds. The brown quicksand in her irises caught hold of my feet and sucked me in with no opportunity for escape. I was helpless, fearless. The lashes moved up and down, sizing me up. Just above the almonds was a perfect plain of smooth prairie brown, with an umbrella cover of black, just hovering, slightly arched in questioned ponders, but hungry for the kill. Trekking across the prairies again, back into the thick vines of my capturer, I stepped into the quicksand and let myself sink. I watched as she caught my steady resolve and her head slightly tilted, her curled curtains slightly framing the right side of God’s canvas, His best work. Almonds narrowed to slits in daring fashion, ready to pounce on any movement not allowed. She laughed through the black pupils, the tear drop corners, the umbrella plains and brown prairies, the black lined vines, and through my own saucers. She walked towards me, advancing on her prey.

She Wanted to Escape

In writing this piece, I would suggest listening to Antony with Bryce Dessner's song "I Was Young When I Left Home" from Dark Was the Night, as I was inspired by this song.

She sat there, part of the circle, next to the boy she liked but would only ever be friends with, next to a stranger, across from a past friend sitting next to a new friend. She sat there, talking but not engaging. Her mind wandered to the past, the future, a parallel reality. She just wanted to escape. Just wanted to relax and let her mind wander from responsibility and pain; from suffering and grief. She took one hit and passed it, coughing, feeling the rush of the drug rush into her brain, a slight pleasurable dizziness surrounding her. She smiled and watched each of the other four take a hit, cough, smile, and continue conversation. She took another, bigger hit. Held it. She let her lips part and watched the smoke just drift out of her mouth, like a lazy cloud floating on a summer day. She blew some smoke rings, pretending she was a train. She started to laugh at the idea of being a train and she told the others and they laughed. They all laughed until some cried. She sat back and closed her eyes. One boy went to get his guitar and suddenly there was soft music strumming from the fingers of her past friend. The music seemed to fill her head and her whole body tingled. Soft hums followed the guitar and a song was sung. A mix of an old childhood tune and some new phrases of current love. She opened her eyes and saw this boy looking at his girlfriend, both in their own little reality, full of love and emotion. She looked at the unattainable boy and he was playing with his hands, twisting them in and out of each other. She suddenly hated this boy and loved him with all of her will. She was tapped on the shoulder by the stranger and she inhaled like she never had before. She coughed uncontrollably, her head lifting off of her body, soaring up, somewhere far away. She could look down and around her at the same time, at those around her, unaware and yet so awake and alert. She watched herself stand up, those looking at her smiled confusedly, and she swayed to the music from the guitar. She laughed as her body tickled and she closed her eyes, tilting her head back. She let her arms swing side to side, left to right. She put them out and slowly spun in a circle. She opened her eyes and looked at those other eyes and she asked them to join her. The unattainable boy, the stranger, and the girlfriend stood up, moving to the music. She let her head roll lazily around her neck, right, back, left, forward, right again. She looked around at those around her, all smiling and moving their souls to the music, their minds separate from their bodies. The boy playing the guitar played a little faster and they all laughed and danced a little faster. They stopped swaying and started bobbing their bodies, swinging their hips and moving their arms, doing crazy footfalls and leg bends. The guitar player laughed and played louder. She could hear the pick striking each string, each twang, each singing note. She and the others sat back down, laughing and giggling together about the same and a part about the different. She laid her head on his lap and he rested his hand upon her forehead, at the start of her dark, curly hair. He looked at her, she looked at him. Each smiled. She knew what each smile meant and he understood. He let his hand glide through her hair, each finger being caressed by each curl leaping up and entwining, then letting go and settling back into their bed. The music slowed and soon the singing stopped. The music died out and everyone slowly faded away. Her heart beat slowly and her pupils dilated then grew small. Her breathing slowed and the tingling moved to numbness. His hand was all she felt. His eyes were all she saw, his lips were all she knew. His lap was what she laid upon, spent her last moments upon, and drew her last few breaths upon. She felt her body start to fall, free-fall. She could see everyone around her, the boy’s hand suddenly stop and his other hand cup her chin and turn her face toward his. She watched the stranger get out his cell phone and begin to dial; the girlfriend start to get teary eyed and watch from a far; the guitar player stand up and fall upon his knees next to her and push the boy’s hands out of the way. She watched and she felt herself still falling, slow and fast all at once. She felt the wind as it rushed through her hair, kissing her skin, lifting the fingers, caressing her chest and shoulders, breathing upon her neck, whispering into her ears. She listened to the quiet sounds of the girlfriend’s sobs, the quiet whispers of the past friend and the stranger, and she listened to the broken whisper of the unattainable boy. She watched as tears fell upon her face. His tears. She looked around at her moment of escape. Her moment of forgetting. She tilted her head back and felt the sorrow of those around her, the grief and anger starting to form. She tried to grasp something, anything. She tried to hold on. She jumped and watched her body jump back into reality, into life. She watched the bodies around hers become rigid and stiff. Taken aback. She watched her eyes move towards his, her hand wrap around his neck, her chest rise in one big breath. She heard her breath leave. It sounded like a gust of screaming wind, so loud it echoed and she felt a lightness she had never felt before. She watched the tears escape the eyes of those who didn’t know her and felt the tears of one who might have loved her.

Preview Time!

So, since I am unemployed and have nothing to do all day/night aside from dealing with my schooling, I have been writing. Now, I have never in my life felt a pull to write like I do now. One day in Italy I had a writing idea and I decided to go with it. This is taking me forever because I can actually see, clearly, what I am writing about and I have tried my hardest to put in as much detail as I possibly can. My protagonist is an old woman at the end of her life and what I am writing is slowly evolving into her life story, which flashes back and forth between past and present. Now, I have one problem: I want this story set in a foreign country, not the states, and I'm not sure how to use some language without actually defining which country she is from. For instance: If I was basing this in the states I would say mom, mother, mama, etc. But for another country? I don't want Mum. Ideas?

I.
She kneels in glow of the candle light that flickers across the aged walls with peeling paint, the virgin, the son, and the cross. In the shadowy creases of her wrinkled face, years of wisdom and wrong doings leak out of every pore, filling the rough and used pews and ancient hymn books with confessions of mistakes. Arthritic hands grasp each other as knuckles turn white and the lips- dry and cracked- rustle against each other as whispered words quickly leave her mouth, pushed out by the lash of her tongue. Silvery hair with touches of black hangs on either side of a long and narrow face, disheveled and wind-blown on a no-wind night. Eyelids closed so tightly they wrinkle and the eyeballs underneath can be seen darting back and forth as if reading a line of confessions that spew from her mouth. A sudden gasp of air, eyes snap open and pierce the dark touched by candle light with eyes the color of ice- blind, but seeing. Shudders escape her and the tiny frail body shakes. Collapsing at the altar, she stares into darkness, into blind faith.

II.
She stands up feeling the joints in her knees start to move, groaning from the pain, the joints bracing themselves for the weight of the frail woman’s body. As her back straightens and her hand instantly and instinctively reaches around to grasp her lower back, her other hand adjusts her dark shawl- velvet?- and she turns. As she crosses herself during her first few steps away from the altar, she pauses and turns around. Bending her head towards the virgin, she slowly raises her eyes, brow furrowed, and a single tear falls from the outside corner of her eye, soon followed by many more. One weak, unsteady step after the other, using the pews as her canes, she makes her way towards the door. Tears stream down her wrinkled and weathered face; as they drip, hands as old as the Church grasp the pew backs- blue veins creating maps of her life cover her hands and knuckles protrude from the almost transparent skin. As she makes her way towards me, the door, she stops at the last pew, straightens, and walks towards me, a look of sadness, cool reserve, and time lost covering her once beautiful face.

III.
The cold of her fingertips as they brush against the outside of my cold, hard, yet embracing wood would send shivers up and down each crack and each sliver of me if I could shiver. I can almost feel the rigidness and hardened shell she puts on as she enters the world of hardship and suffering, leaving the safety of the Church. With the brush of those fingertips is the loss of hope and trust and faith left behind, one last time. She stops just short of the first step and pulls the dark shawl tighter around her frail body, ties a dark gray veil around her head, and braces with the little bit of strength left, her against the wind. The last day of summer passed long ago, taking with it the greens and sunny skies, leaving in its wake instead the reds and oranges and browns, the clouds, and the cool days. Her first step onto the stairs is unsteady, staggering, weak. But as each step is taken, the veiled head slowly rises, the slender, slightly crooked with time shoulders pull back, and by the last step just before the sidewalk lined with gas lamps shining small circles of yellowish light on the cobblestone streets, she has pulled all her remaining strength from the depths inside of her ancient and stolen body. She turns to the right and slowly makes her way down the uneven sidewalk, looking up only once when a gentleman walks by and tips his hat her way.

***
“Mama! Mama! Look at what I caught, Mama! Look! A firefly. Isn’t it beautiful, Mama?”
“Hush, child. The baby is sleeping. Now run along with your little lighted bugs, do not bother me with such insolent things. Go!”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Slowly making her way out of what was once a happy room for both her and her mother, the child’s face is rigid and cold, steeled against any emotion. As soon as she closes the heavy wooden door with a click she lets her tears fall. As tiny tanned fingers with nails outlined in a few days’ dirt quickly and harshly rub the almond shaped brown eyes, a tight curl of black hair falls out of place. Frustrated with the new baby, hatred boiling inside of her, the young child feels a tinge of guilt and once she is outside the rickety old house with a slanted roof and missing floorboards, dust and the musky smell of time are behind her, she falls to her knees in the dirt, a little cloud of dust lightly jumping into the air around her torn woolen skirt. Praying to the Father to forgive for her hatred of an innocent child that does not know better, the child allows herself to ask for one selfish favor: “Please Father, let my mother love me once again.” Standing up and dusting off what little dirt she can from the woven fabric, the little girl runs out into the prairie which surrounds her little shack. With wind blowing and the moon shining brightly above her, the child forgets her rough life for just a few moments and enjoys the feel of the breeze as it lightly caresses her untamed, curly hair, pulling more curls loose of the braid she daily wore.

***