The whirring, high pitch tones of the Cicada, rise to a vibratory fury and descend as I watch the mist settle upon the summer fields. Milkweed floss has gone to seed out by the barn, white flurries dance upon the electric aether, ahead of the approaching storm.
I wander through the lush and timeless countryside, where mimosa blossoms release their sugared fragrance cooked by a fiery sun. A peregrine falcon soars from a space on high; overseer of the rolling hillside.
Melodic voices float upon the breeze, as Mennonite women share stories and laughter, hanging their laundered clothing, the wind will press and dry into shape. Cotton and linen, sun faded and warmly fragrant from nearby honeysuckle and pine trees.
In the old house, thunder rumbles the wood clapboards as they settle and shift the dust through rays of light, pouring in from the open windows of the parlor.
The women folk make iced lemon and watermelon waters which are stirred with patience and long spoons, into perspiring glass jars. The humming of the evening porch gossip, as loved ones gather sharing stories of the day, will linger into the late-night until the vibration of silence, is the only sound to be heard.
Blackbirds among the cornfields swiftly take flight, trailing a dusty path towards the lavender heaven above. Those that have secrets, will find haven in Mabel Rue’s tobacco barn, deep into the tree line, where dusk moves like a velvet shadow over the living things.
The lace hem of my soft, cotton dress and bare feet, show a shimmer of dust from walking the back roads winding down into Ash Rose Hollow. I gather wild plants and berries, in Caedmon Blackwood’s meadow, to make remedies and salves. Walking back to our town, I see horses languish in the field, with the last heated moments of the day. Gray bats swoop and ascend in a blur of movement in the twilight; upon unseen things in the air.
In the evening, I bathe in dandelion and chamomile blossoms collected in the afternoon heat. The gurgled sound of water from the spigot echoes off of the steamed walls as I place my cotton gown on the linen cabinet, lined with faded Christmas cards from days gone by.
The blossoms are quick to release their fragrance, rising with the steam. The scent is intoxicating and sharp, like buttery mint and sweet ripe apples. The warm current moves the flowers to the calm rhythm of my breathing.
The moon’s light settles upon the handmade quilt my grandmother made for me when I was a child. The linen and satin patchwork are faded now, like my memories of her. Touching the mingled fabric that she touched, I can imagine her stitching patiently with her nimble hands, is the only connection that I have been left with.
Years ago, I found a sepia print of her in the attic. Lovely and timeless, she stood in her youth. She had gossamer hair and winter blue eyes, looking at someone who knew how to make her smile. The kind of smile, that could make the thorniest man unshackle the taut binds around his heart.
Combing through my bathed hair, I look through a window upon the shadowy forest. I see Caedmon’s two-story Federal house. The white painted bricks, have blistered and faded through the seasons. It has the appearance of a sugar dusted, gingerbread house standing tall among the pines.
A greasy oil lamp burns on a rickety table, on the upper back porch. I see his sturdy frame, silhouetted against the moonlight. His pipe smoke is a rising phantom, glowing and taking form upon the air. His stare penetrates through the nightfall, like he is expecting something to come his way.
I think he secretly watches me in the mornings as I gather herbs and berries from his fields.
I watch him, too…
I reminisce the day’s moments, hiding memories in an imaginary box, like sacred treasures. I listen for the distant and resonant shrill of the night train whistle. Bellowing across the fields, minutes before the town’s clock strikes the hour of a new morn.
Haunting lullabies, are carried upon the wings of Nighthawks and Whip-poor-wills, as the townsfolk fade into the shadows of slumber.
Tommie Flannery Baskis is a published author and photographer who specializes in distinctive vignette essays, fiction and nonfiction historical stories.
If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines.
Please share this post to give it maximum distribution. Exposure is our contributors’ only compensation. Don’t forget to back link to this story.
Financial donations through either our GoFundMe or Buy Me a Coffee accounts will help expand our global reach by paying for advertising, more advanced WordPress plans, and expansion into more extensive Content Delivery Networks.
Image generated by AI.
