A cold stormy night was at its best. The howling wind was blowing the old shutters off the windows. Rain pelted the house like bullets. A crash followed ever flash of light. Unable to sleep, I laid with my eyes wide open, starring at my grandmother’s painting, which showed a lovely summer day: a scenery with beautiful hills and sun kissed trees. It was my only escape to peaceful freedom. I would get lost in that painting. I could run through the meadow, pick daises by the babbling creek, or even climb the trees covered in bright pink blossoms. What a wonderful place.
“Maybe some day I could live at a place like that..,” I thought as my eyes slowing blinked and then closed. Unknowingly I dozed off into a dreamy slumber, and awoke to another frost bitten morning.
I got up and slip on a rope. Afraid to see what damage the night’s storm had done, I quickly passed the window and trotted down the creaky oak staircase. The smell of tasty sausages filled the air as I walked into the kitchen.
“Good to see you’re finally up,” my mother looked up from putting more logs of wood into the stove, “Sit down, I made your favorite.”
I sat down in the usual chair at the kitchen table. While waiting for breakfast I looked down at the ragged tablecloth that lay over the handcrafted table-for-four. There were many different stains and rips; each one brought back so many memories. To my right was a large round watermelon stain. A picture ran through my mind, my mother and father were calling me outside where there was the table cloth lying on the grass, it was brand new, never been used. I sat down and ran my hand along the smooth checkered knitting. It was a special day; it was my seven-year-old birthday. All sorts of wonderful food were laid out just waiting to be devoured. A fresh watermelon caught my eye; I had never seen a watermelon before. My father noticed my eager stare and cut me a slice. It was the best thing I had ever tasted. Its sweet juice ran down my chin as I took a big bite. My joy soon turned to tears when I looked down and saw what I had done. A puddle of red juice was making a huge stain on the brain new tablecloth. Seeing my sorrowful tears, daddy took me in his arms and said, “It’s ok, it will all be ok…”
“Here you are, two eggs, a sausage and buttered toast,” my thoughts were ended as my mother placed a steaming plate in front of me. I wanted to reply, but I quickly held my tongue. I had to keep my promise.
“Today is a school day you know. I want you to do your class work and no more fighting,” my mother gave me what she must of thought was an affectionate smile. School was not one of my strong points; it bored me with arithmetic, physics, world history, and literature. What a waste of time! I could never become anything more then a mother when I grow old. Not that there is anything wrong with being a mother. What’s wrong is to continue sending a 14-year-old to schooling after she has already learned to read and write.
“Best be heading to school now,” my mother said as she pushed me out the door before I even got a good smell of my breakfast, “Here’s a sausage, you can eat it on the way… Good-bye dear, I love you!”
I grabbed my books and stumbled out the door. A chill ran up my spine; it’s too cold for school! I pulled a scarf out of my coat pocket and wrapped it tight around my neck and ears. The morning dew had frozen to the grass on the sides of the dirt road. Slowly and painfully I walked two miles to the first fork in the road and then I stopped. If I turned left I would travel to the schoolhouse I had seen every day for the past decade. But if I turned right I would find new places and adventures. I stood still for what seemed to be an hour. I stood there until the sun peaked over the hilltops. Then, just as it did, something caught my eye, something I had never seen before.
Beyond the road and far past the fields there was a meadow, a beautiful meadow that looked awfully familiar. It was the same meadow that hung right beside my bed. All this time it was just a few miles from my house. How could I have not known? After wishing for years that I could be at such a place and then finding it right in my backyard. Not thinking, I ran across the muddy field and toward the bright trees and luscious hills. I ran as hard as I could, but the harder I ran the further away the meadow seemed to be. It seemed that there was no way to get there. Disappointed and weary I collapsed onto the icy ground and fell into a dead sleep.
“…. Do you think she’ll be all right?”
“I don’t know, she just collapsed, I’m not sure why…. I’ll come back and check in a few days. Just make sure she gets plenty of rest and lots of liquids.”
“Thank you, doctor.” I awoke to my mother’s voice, and heard the front door shut. Turning my head I saw my grandmother’s painting; I was in my own room. I sat up confused and feeling rather lost. What had happened to me? Slowly I picked myself out of bed and put one foot down on the cold wood floor, then the other. Silently I moved down the stairs and toward the living room. My mother was rocking back and forth in the rocking chair that sat near the fireplace. She was starting deeply into the blazing fire. Her head turn toward me as I step off of the staircase. Her eyes filled with tears. I ran to her and reached my arms around her.
“I was so worried,” my mother spit out between sobs.
“What… what has happ…ened,” my mouth swelled, I felt like I could not breathe. My mother held my close and again burst into tears. I felt her comfort around me like a wool sweater that had been warming by the fire.
“You…” my mother started to say something but then stopped. I heard her breath quiver. Then sudden they she became calm and said, “It’s ok, it will all be ok….” These words echoed through my mind, and remembrance of my father followed.
As I thought of my father, my mother also came to mind. Something I had never thought of before flashed past my eyes. I was young, just under four years old. Sitting on the same rocking chair with my mother holding me tight. She gently brushed my hair with her fingertips. Crackling of a warm fire filled my ears as we rocked back and forth. Amazed that I had remembered this after ten years, I also began to cry. I had never thought of my mother in this way before. I saw her as a caretaker: feeding, cleaning, and telling me what was best. Now, she seemed to be more like my father. After his death my mother and I were never as close as we used to be. Too scared to show our true feelings.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“No, I’m sorry,” said my mother calmly, “I should have never put a wall between you and me. You mean so much to me; I shouldn’t have hid from you.” I soon felt a change unlike one I had ever felt before. My mom’s heart did not seem as tense as it used to, now it seemed very peaceful.
That night another winter storm blew in from the north. But this time instead of wishing that I were some place else, wishing that I were at a peaceful, warm meadow. I stayed close to my mother’s heart. I was never cold that night.
