Blog Challenge #1 - Someone You Miss
I started typing this earlier, and it ended up being four pages long. NO ONE in the world wants to read four pages of someone's blog, so I decided I needed to condense.
The person I miss more than anything is Ellen. It doesn't matter who she is, or what relation she is to me. In four pages of dialogue, I still hadn't gotten to the root of what our actual relationship is (was), so the only thing I can do is tell you about her.
She's beautiful, for starters. I mean really, truly, beautiful - that kind of beautiful that makes people watch her walk down a street, and not really know why they're watching her. She has that ruddy Irish skin tone - that "I-look-like-I've-knocked-back-a-few-too-many" look, but without actually having had anything to drink. Average size, average height, but the red hair makes her seem statuesque. She carries herself as if she has no apologies to make, no one to answer to. In her late 50's now, she claims that life is too short to have regrets.
She lives in an old white farmhouse on top of a hill outside of Kansas City. The farmhouse was once a prison for Confederate soldiers during the civil war - she swears that one of their ghosts still wanders their rooms. She's always believed that he's the reason she managed to raise six children there - with creaky, winding stairs, bugs, snakes, and all of the other dangers old farmhouses tend to pose - without having to deal with any major injuries. She says he watches over them.
Her house is filled to the brim with treasures of every kind. Alex, her husband, is a wood crafter. There are bowls, jewelry boxes, ornaments, and decorations made from exotic woods that you would find it hard to pronounce. Every corner is filled with comfortable furniture. There are dragons and fairies in most of the rooms - she is, after all, a believer in all things fantasy. Books are stuffed here and there on random shelves or in cabinets.
Her kitchen is, like most farm kitchens, warm and cozy. I couldn't even begin to count the number of cups of tea I've had at that big, wooden table. This kitchen is where I learned to cook! Saturday mornings bring the smell of homemade cinnamon rolls, or quiche made with fresh vegetables harvested from the garden.
Her bedroom is the only place in the house you won't ever find a cat lounging - there are several, by the way. The bedroom is filled with art work, sculptures, trinkets, and books, and all of these are placed lovingly on shelves of poplar that Ellen painstakingly sanded with the absolute smoothest grit sandpaper money can buy.
There are plants EVERYWHERE - crammed into every window imaginable, hanging from ceilings, stuck on top of shelves where even the smallest amount of light comes through, and somehow, decades after their first sprout, they continue to thrive.
In the backyard is the Mimosa tree she planted the year she moved in. Year after year, her first husband mowed it down. She says this is a metaphor for their entire 13-year marriage. When she met Alex, her husband now, they fell in love and were married within six weeks. He contracted a deadly disease shortly after they were married and was hospitalized with a minimal chance of recovery. After spending days and days at the hospital with him, living on nothing but coffee and hope, she came home for a few hours to recharge and get some sleep. She sat on the back stoop and had a talk with God - "I just found him," she said. "I just finally found the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, and you will not take him away from me." She went to bed and slept.
When she woke up her Mimosa had bloomed - full, beautiful, pink blooms. Alex came home from the hospital the following week.
Her garden is a magical place. On one side you will find Mother Mary sitting at the base of a trellis full of climbing clematis. Under the Virgin is the final resting place of her beloved Irish Wolfhound. Opposite Mary is another trellis, this one covered in Wisteria, and at the bottom of which is a laughing Buddha. Her grandmother's lilac bushes (and their offspring) are spread throughout the front yard, where you can see them from every angle of the house. There are little altars like this all over her farm - a handmade paving stone here, handmade lantern there.. after 9 years of experiences there, I would still regularly find new gems in various nooks and crannies.
Somehow, we've grown apart, and she's chosen not to participate in my life anymore. I feel that I've played my part in trying to maintain our relationship, but as she told me one time, people come into your life for a reason, and there is usually a reason behind their leaving. God takes care of it for us, and provides us with what we need - no more, no less.
It just doesn't make me miss her any less.
The person I miss more than anything is Ellen. It doesn't matter who she is, or what relation she is to me. In four pages of dialogue, I still hadn't gotten to the root of what our actual relationship is (was), so the only thing I can do is tell you about her.
She's beautiful, for starters. I mean really, truly, beautiful - that kind of beautiful that makes people watch her walk down a street, and not really know why they're watching her. She has that ruddy Irish skin tone - that "I-look-like-I've-knocked-back-a-few-too-many" look, but without actually having had anything to drink. Average size, average height, but the red hair makes her seem statuesque. She carries herself as if she has no apologies to make, no one to answer to. In her late 50's now, she claims that life is too short to have regrets.
She lives in an old white farmhouse on top of a hill outside of Kansas City. The farmhouse was once a prison for Confederate soldiers during the civil war - she swears that one of their ghosts still wanders their rooms. She's always believed that he's the reason she managed to raise six children there - with creaky, winding stairs, bugs, snakes, and all of the other dangers old farmhouses tend to pose - without having to deal with any major injuries. She says he watches over them.
Her house is filled to the brim with treasures of every kind. Alex, her husband, is a wood crafter. There are bowls, jewelry boxes, ornaments, and decorations made from exotic woods that you would find it hard to pronounce. Every corner is filled with comfortable furniture. There are dragons and fairies in most of the rooms - she is, after all, a believer in all things fantasy. Books are stuffed here and there on random shelves or in cabinets.
Her kitchen is, like most farm kitchens, warm and cozy. I couldn't even begin to count the number of cups of tea I've had at that big, wooden table. This kitchen is where I learned to cook! Saturday mornings bring the smell of homemade cinnamon rolls, or quiche made with fresh vegetables harvested from the garden.
Her bedroom is the only place in the house you won't ever find a cat lounging - there are several, by the way. The bedroom is filled with art work, sculptures, trinkets, and books, and all of these are placed lovingly on shelves of poplar that Ellen painstakingly sanded with the absolute smoothest grit sandpaper money can buy.
There are plants EVERYWHERE - crammed into every window imaginable, hanging from ceilings, stuck on top of shelves where even the smallest amount of light comes through, and somehow, decades after their first sprout, they continue to thrive.
In the backyard is the Mimosa tree she planted the year she moved in. Year after year, her first husband mowed it down. She says this is a metaphor for their entire 13-year marriage. When she met Alex, her husband now, they fell in love and were married within six weeks. He contracted a deadly disease shortly after they were married and was hospitalized with a minimal chance of recovery. After spending days and days at the hospital with him, living on nothing but coffee and hope, she came home for a few hours to recharge and get some sleep. She sat on the back stoop and had a talk with God - "I just found him," she said. "I just finally found the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, and you will not take him away from me." She went to bed and slept.
When she woke up her Mimosa had bloomed - full, beautiful, pink blooms. Alex came home from the hospital the following week.
Her garden is a magical place. On one side you will find Mother Mary sitting at the base of a trellis full of climbing clematis. Under the Virgin is the final resting place of her beloved Irish Wolfhound. Opposite Mary is another trellis, this one covered in Wisteria, and at the bottom of which is a laughing Buddha. Her grandmother's lilac bushes (and their offspring) are spread throughout the front yard, where you can see them from every angle of the house. There are little altars like this all over her farm - a handmade paving stone here, handmade lantern there.. after 9 years of experiences there, I would still regularly find new gems in various nooks and crannies.
Somehow, we've grown apart, and she's chosen not to participate in my life anymore. I feel that I've played my part in trying to maintain our relationship, but as she told me one time, people come into your life for a reason, and there is usually a reason behind their leaving. God takes care of it for us, and provides us with what we need - no more, no less.
It just doesn't make me miss her any less.
posted by SevenHappyScrappers at 7:01 PM
2 Comments:
If I wasn't already teary eyed after the Mimosa plant blossoming ... then knowing that "people leave us for a reason" really struck a chord.
Sara, your writing is awesome. I could picture the farmhouse, the rooms, the gardens ...
I think *YOU* have entered my life for a reason. Thanks for sharing.
Nice colors. Keep up the good work. thnx!
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