Affection placed in an open palm is
really no affection at all.
(Wayne Wilkes)
Momma
by Tim
Wilkinson
The night was exceptionally dark. Only
a few lonely shafts of brash, yellowish light, seeping through the window from
the street lamps below, illuminated the upstairs bedroom, and they had to shyly
sneak and creep around the dark green curtains, lest, discovered, scolded and
shunned.
Wayne was not aware just what had
awoken him; perhaps it was the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof or the
distant rumblings of thunder off to the east. Yet whatever the cause he was
awake now, lying on his back on the right side, his side, of the large, wooden
framed bed.
He listened silently, lying motionless
in the darkness as the light, yet steady rain fell upon the roof, spattering lightly
against the pains. He liked the rain. It soothed him, made him feel comfortable
and safe. Bad things don’t go out in the rain and seldom come knocking, or so
he believed.
As he lay, the dull rumbling of the thunder
grew lighter more distant, the storms rage having passed, leaving only the
calming rain and the clean, cool air. Yet it boomed and crashed in the
distance, threatening worse on nights to come,
“I will be back,” it yelled in the
distance. “I will be back!”
The breeze puffed through the
partially opened window, constant yet light. He could hear it rushing past the
leaves, teasing and toying, laughingly spinning about, testing. However, the leaves
held fast, for it was but the first of September and the green still clung solidly
to their surface, holding firm, flowing thick within their watery, sugar filled
veins, still sticky and moist. Clinging fast to mother tree, they ignored the
winds teasing and testing,
“Not tonight,” they whispered. “Not
tonight. Youth still lives within us. Life still clings. Not till October, not
until fall. Fly away wind. Fly away.”
Wayne only listened, smiling at their
childish discourse, knowing their tone would soon change as the first frosts of
winter crept upwards, and the icy fingers of blustery death plucked and snatched
them from their branches, dashing them to the ground. However, for now, only
play and laughter met his ears, joy and the warm September rains.
She moaned lightly stirring just a
bit.
Her breathing came slow and regular
and oh so soft. She lay with her head in the crook of his right arm, one
forearm tossed across his bare chest, her long supple body curled tightly
against his side. She had filled in a bit since the night they met, a bit
rounder in the tummy, heavier in the back, yet that mattered little to him. He
found her as lovely and beautiful as he had the first second he set eyes on
her.
As the slight, sweet sounds escaped
her pink lips, she edged ever so slightly closer beside him, pressing the soft
warmth of her long body more firmly against his. Her tiny pink nose giggled and
twitched as she stirred, romping through dreams meadows and the wonderlands of
sleep.
Turning his head, just a smidge, he
looked at her face, silent and calm, eyes closed loosely, lips gently smiling
and he knew all was well. She made him feel safe, secure and cared for. She
made him feel loved, needed, all the things he knew little of, until her. He
put one hand over hers, pressing tenderly, evenly, lightly kissing one cheek.
As he lay, listening to the rhythm of
her sleep and the symphony of heavens tears, he wondered. He wondered if she
remembered, as he did, the night that they met. It was a cold and bitter night.
Ice and frost coated the streets and the leafless branches as the wind howled
in vicious delight and long awaited triumph. He was alone, driving up to a
local convenience store for smokes and beer. He had not seen her as he went in.
It was only as he exited that he first noticed her.
Yes, he remembered, as if it was
yesterday. Did she?
She walked right up to him as he stood
on the sidewalk, heading for his car. He knew right away that she was in
trouble, big trouble, pregnant, alone, hungry and shivering. He greeted her
rather suspiciously, she in return. Yet it took but one glance, one look into
her eyes, one sad lonely stare and one silent moment of unexpressed need, and
he was hers.
He had not asked for her attentions
nor begged for her affections, she offered them freely and without cause,
seeking no recourse nor recommence and he loved her for that. For affection
placed in an open palm is really no affection at all.
Of course he had had to carry her to
the car, as he was afraid she could not make it. He still questions whether it
was he invited her, or if she invited him. He leans towards the latter, but of
course, he knew, she would see it differently. Either way he took her home, to
his home, empty, silent and cold, and there she stayed. She never thought of
leaving. She certainly never tried, as she could have easily done so. No, she
stayed, and as they say, the rest is history.
He wondered for a second, but only a
wee bit of a second, a smidgen of an instant, why. Why had she stayed? Yet no
sooner than that thought filled his mind, she opened her sleepy green eyes,
jade colored eyes, reptilian eyes, yawning wide. Fixing her eyes on his she held,
and he knew. He knew the answer, no need to ask or to doubt. He knew why she
stayed. She stayed because she loved him. He loved her. That was all there was,
all that there need ever be.
She pushed her head closer to his and
purred. He petted the soft, long hair of her head and stroked her long, sleek
back before getting up, going downstairs and filling her bowls with water and
food, in case she got up in the night.
She did not follow. She understood.
She waited. She always waited, waited for his return. And as he slipped easily
back into bed, pulling the sheets up to his neck, she returned to her place
beside him curling firmly, tightly against him.
He thought he saw just a bit of an
unused kiss upon her lips but decided to take it later.
“I love you Momma Kitty,” he said.
“I love you too Dad. Goodnight,” she
purred into his ear, falling quickly back in to sleep, one paw held snuggly
across his bare chest.
“Yes,” he thought.
“She remembers.”
The End
© 2009, Tim Wilkinson
Author Bio:
Father of two
girls, Mr. Wilkinson has been writing since the age of twelve.Recently accepted
for publication in ‘The Path’, ‘The Speculative Edge’, ‘The
Global Twitter Community Poetry Project, and ‘Static Movement’, he
continues to write and seek new avenues for publication and distribution.After spending
thirty years working in the telecommunications industry, traveling and writing
in between the often conflicting commitments of family, work, home and life in
general, Mr. Wilkinson now focuses more time and effort on his most enduring
dream, writing. Collections of his earlier works are available online, through
Amazon-dot-com. http://timwilkinson.org
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