The porch sagged under the damp weight of rotting board-lumber and planks. Many times, Ruth had seen sweating, virile men insert fresh timbers, some still secreting sticky sap, to lift and support sagging porches. Sagging porches were a common feature among the rural cottages and shacks that still stood in her memories. This porch, the very porch of her fondest recollections, was presently far too putrefied for support by even the freshest of sticky timbers and the most virile of sweating men. The remnant proud paint and poor whitewash could cling only to the very edges of the decaying siding and soffit. Ruth surveyed the disintegrating structure from the tangled brier thicket that had once been the front yard, the bright flowers her mother had planted now throttled by hardier and more dangerous vegetation.
Ruth feared that her modest weight might represent the proverbial straw that fell the entire structure, and yet she decided that summoned souvenirs of childhood might justify the risk. She proceeded with an abundant caution.
The floor creaked, and perhaps even swayed, but didn’t collapse. The front door, though moisture swollen and stiff, opened with a strong shoulder shove. Ruth had always been a woman of strong shoulders. The opening door stirred thick dust that then floated in the rays that bore through the cracked and dirty windows of the front room. Though the scent and sights of decay and corruption were omnipresent, the home appeared much as it did when she had found her mother those three decades ago lying on her bed, cold and stiff, her hands folded across her chest as if preparing for an inevitable and endless slumber.
Ruth recalled the sadness of that morning and how the solemn men had wrapped her mother in a white sheet and slid her into the back of the long cream-colored hearse. She recalled how she had lingered for an hour or more among her mother’s pink and blue hydrangeas and wept. She recalled how she had driven by the homeplace many times and contemplated selling it or even burning to the ground. She finally decided that the lodging should pass into oblivion at its own pace, much as she had decided for herself, as if she and the structure shared a common senescence.
Ruth examined each room, its contents, and evocations. Finally, she came to her mother’s bedroom. She approached the large travel trunk that rested at the foot of the black iron bed frame. As a girl, Ruth had fancied that the trunk cloistered priceless treasures. A brass key still protruded from the lock and Ruth had but little trouble turning the key and opening the lid. Inside, she found neatly folded fine linens and bedcovers. At the bottom of the chest, as if purposely hidden, she discovered a most beautiful and colorful patchwork quilt with perfectly hand-sewn geometric figures forming perfectly aligned rows and columns. Her mother, and her mother before her, had faced, bated, and backed many quilts. Ruth kept and treasured those coverings, but she had never seen this one. It appeared new, as if it had been completed only a few weeks, or even days, before.
Ruth neatly folded and returned all of the other lines and bedding to the trunk, but kept the new quilt pulled close to her breast.
She then carefully placed the quilt on her mother’s bed, making certain that it was perfectly aligned. She stepped back to admire its craft and symmetry and decided that it was the most elegant quilt she had ever seen.
Ruth then noticed that she was unaccountably tired and that her shoulders sagged with fatigue. She decided to recline atop the quilt on her mother’s bed, and soon found herself in a state of what one could only describe as complete bliss, as if she had consumed a hypnotic potion of some sort. She lingered in this state for what must have been an hour or more before falling into a deep and absolute sleep. She began to dream of her childhood and of all the seasons and of all her revelry in all of those seasons. She saw all of these things through her very eyes, as if she were seeing them once more in actual time. Dreams and visions of her youth continued, and she could identify her lodging, its fresh white paint and level porch. She could see and touch the pink and blue petals of her mother’s flowers. She could detect the sweet scent of pound cake wafting through the open window. And finally, she could hear her mother humming soothing hymns from inside the kitchen.
Alan Caldwell has been teaching in Georgia since 1994 but only began submitting writing in May 2022. He has since been published in over two dozen journals and magazines. He is being nominated for the Pushcart this year.
If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like contemporary dark fiction and poetry, you may also want to check out The Chamber Magazine.
Please repost this to give it maximum distribution.
thank you
LikeLike