Wrote this while in a funk with revision. Drabble drabble drabble please leave a review!
The poem at the end which also governed the title is by E. E Cummings.
Clara had never really considered losing things to be too much of a problem. It happened often enough to her to be classed as something of an annoying inconvenience rather than something she could just react to with a disinterested shrug, yes, but otherwise? Perfectly acceptable. More often than not the disappearing item was found again, be it an hour, a day or a week later. Items were static; they didn't move unless they were pushed. Plus, they were usually replaceable if they had really done a disappearing act. Another pencil could be taken out from the drawer. A friend could help with the notes that had run off along with her school bag.
People were just a little bit more problematic.
The gravestone was certainly static. Unrepresentative, and not going anywhere. It hardly reflected all the bumps in the road that Ellie Oswald, Beloved Wife and Mother, had gone through in her life, the smooth, dark marble arching up and enclosing the otherwise impersonal message. Too impersonal. Aside from the name jumping painfully out from the black surface, and the sickening familiarity of the body beneath it, there was nothing to link it with her mum. There was the odd leaf that tumbled past and swirled across Clara's line of sight, brown and decaying in stark contrast to the vibrant red specimen that was currently preserved in the book clutched to her chest. But even that small reference would be gone as the days and months ticked by, until all that remained was that golden, irritatingly impersonal inscription.
It was silly to imagine that two lines of text could accurately represent such a complex, wonderful person as her mother. But how Clara wished they could! Such beautiful words had been said at the funeral, but they had been lost to the echoing walls of the church, now only residing in people's memories which were by no means solid slabs. If only they could take her memories, lay them out for all to see in a glorious technicolour timeline of a memorial so she could point at each image and say 'There! That was my mother!' Actually, perhaps a better word would be 'is'. Her mum is the source of Clara's desire to travel, she's days at the local park coaxing the old swing into moving and throwing balls into stranger's heads, she's cuddles in the window on rainy days no matter how old Clara gets, those girlish whispers out of earshot of her father that make her feel like she's indulging in something oh-so-special, days out, help with the little things, assuring her the big things aren't that big and all can be tackled…
That's her mother, and it always will be.
She hadn't cried yet. Not here, at least. Somehow Clara didn't feel that she had the capacity to. There was an aching in her chest, yes, an awful, hollow sort of feeling that just felt so out of place, but it was almost like the battered book clamped to her chest was holding those emotions in. Her mouth was agape, prepared to work around any ugly choking sobs that spilled forth, but they didn't come, despite her eyes aching to release them. Next to her her father put a hand on her shoulder, lost in his own reel of memories that had been cut short far too soon, and the touch caused Clara to take in a ragged breath. Surely she'd cry now. She wanted to. Let the drops fall to the ground and darken the dirt there; loosen up the tightness of her chest.
But her mother probably wouldn't have wanted her to. No, she knew her mother wouldn't have wanted her to. Hell, she'd probably have seen death as the next great adventure. Perhaps a little earlier than she'd have liked – than they'd all have liked – but who ever said these things were predictable? Take life as it comes and act in the moment, that's what she'd always said. Acted upon, too. A bizarre image of her mother turning up at Heaven's gates with a map and a suitcase exclaiming something along the lines of 'Oh my stars, here already? Think I'm a bit off track' popped into Clara's head and she found herself stifling a strange sort of laugh, one that she ended up letting go of in a hiccup. It rang through the air, the brown leaves rustling as though they had been physically disturbed by Clara's odd yelp of a laugh. Twisted by the sobs she can't quite let out. Not here. Not over her mother's grave. Still Clara felt that her mother wouldn't have wanted that.
She'd want Clara to go off and make new memories, start new adventures, not dwell over old ones and the ones-that-could-have-been.
It's her mother's red coat that hugs her as they eventually walk away, tightly clinging to her shoulders and back in an embrace.
l(a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness