Ida poured boiling water into the chipped dishpan, steam molding black tendrils against
pale skin. No matter. I’m still pretty.
Her son slept in a laundry basket. A fitful child, needy, his body so hot it made her angry. Big Mum loves him more.
That Munkes woman had rushed over, waving a coiled newspaper. A girl, born last week, twelve days after her boy. Six months after the divorce. Five months and twenty-five days after a marriage. Five months and twenty-four days after she changed her name back.
Dark clouds on the horizon promised rain; Ida closed the back window.
NOTE: Historical fiction, but on a very small stage. Ida Hannigan was my grandmother - a difficult, brittle creature who never seemed to love anyone. And yet, there were stories in her life, sealed shut against the outside, like the closed windows of our old house. The dates on the graves, the names added to genealogy sites, the newspaper clippings leave an interesting trail.
Beautifully done. Achingly sad.
ReplyDeleteWow. The intrigue is accentuated by your note. And even your notes are just lovely writing.
ReplyDeleteI want to venture further down this interesting trail. Are you writing any sort of family history?
ReplyDeleteNo, the real people aren't as interesting as their fictional selves! Or rather, the stories around them are more interesting than the real characters.
DeleteWhat interesting family lore, even if it is a little bit fiction. And I agree that your note was written beautifully!
ReplyDelete