a short story about a collage of moments

Mar 07, 2008 - 12:08 PM PST

Flo

The shiny needle methodically wove in and out of the dark cloth. The ebony thread bound the separate pieces of fabric together like days link the months and years. Sewing is an ability never forgotten, like riding a bike. Thick, rough hands guided the needle, deftly dodging the pins temporarily securing the hem in place.

There she sat on the edge of the antique chair, leaning forward into the lamplight, her aged back bent uncomfortably. After a few minutes of quiet work, Flo reclined back into her chair, the wooden joints creaking under her slightly plump body. The afternoon light from the window behind her shone onto her soft white curls, giving them a transparent look like a body losing its soul.

Her work-worn hands still contained much of their former strength from her days working on the farm as a wife and mother. Yet, here they lay, folded quietly in the material in her lap, resting from the minimal work she now craved to do.

With a sigh, she held up the tiny pants and surveyed her handiwork, her weathered and lined face inches away from the cloth. The end of her large, round nose perfectly balanced her half-moon reading glasses as if a sculptor had molded the ideal perch on which to rest. Her sharp, brown eyes roved along the hemline, searching for any sign of a loose thread.

Her features were large, and at first glance, hard with primness that came from living in a time when respectable ladies wore hats outdoors and served lemonade in the sitting room at Sunday tea. Once a handsome young girl, her girlishness faded with the duties of being a wife and mother. Never had she been delicate and small. Even now, her body still retained a worker’s build, tall and broad-shouldered. The sacrifices she had made could be seen in the lines on her forehead and the unwomanly calluses on her hands.

A black and white picture of her wedding day hung beside her amid the growing number of children’s portraits. The sun glinted off the glass frame and caught her sharp eye. The peaceful air around her became hot and noisy from the crowds of friends and family. She was seventeen again and surrounded by people congratulating her and her new husband.

“Darling, come here.” Her mother called from the side room.

Flo made her way through the piles of presents, the crowds of people, and the tables of food towards her mother.

“Yes, Mama?”

“Oh, darling, fix your rouge.” She motioned to Flo’s lips and handed her a lipstick.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Here,” she gestured to the mirror hanging above an antique tea wagon.

Flo swept the colour over her plump lips and gave the mirror a happy smile, showing off her pretty white teeth and flushed cheeks.

Her mother handed her a blotting tissue. “Darling, I’m glad you’re happy. He’s an amiable man and you two will be happy with each other.”

“Thank you, Mama. I know he isn’t the richest man, but I love him and that’s all that matters.” Flo smiled again, girlishly.

Her mother’s voice became low and serious. “Your father and I are always here if you need us.”

“I know you are, but we want to try to make it on our own.”

Her mother’s eyes teared up. “Now, darling, you just go out and enjoy the party while you can.”

“Thanks, Mama.”

Flo planted a quick kiss on her mother’s cheek and flew back to her husband. She pressed herself close to the man she loved as the photographer snapped one of the last shots. The room began to blur from the light of the camera, and a thick unquenchable dust rose from the dirt ground, where Flo was crouched on her knees.

She was twenty-five and pulling weeds out of her garden. A floppy brimmed hat hung on her back as the sun lightened her dark hair and darkened her porcelain skin. Unladylike drops of sweat mingled with the smudges of dirt covering her face and arms. A small baby cooed under a covered basket beside her.

“Almost finished, Henry, then we can go inside and make supper for Papa, okay?” She continued to speak in low, soothing tones, the rhythm of her words growing slower and more patient.

A tall, lanky man in dusty clothes neared the mother and child, returning over the rolling hills of fields and grass.

“How’s my darling?” He spoke softly in her ear, kneeling down to give her a kiss.

She looked into his face. “Just fine, thank you.” She tried to wipe the dirt from her face, but only succeeded in making a bigger smudge. “Hope you don’t mind my messy state.” She smiled, warmly.

“I think you’re even more beautiful now than the day I married you.” His hand rested on her growing stomach. “Come inside before you tire yourself out.” He stood and stretched out his hand.

The standing sent blood rushing to her head and the scene around her changed from the open fields to a small dimly lit room. The rushing of the uncontained wind changed to hacking coughs as she dampened a cloth and placed it over her husband’s sweaty brow. She was thirty-nine and greying, with small crow’s feet surrounding her still bright eyes.

“Mama?” her children called.

“Yes, dears, come in and say goodnight to your father.” Her voice was quiet and subdued.

Five small children entered the room and huddled around the bed. After goodnights spoken in whispers and soft I love you’s, their father struggled to pat each child on the head.

Flo’s mother appeared at the doorway. “Come, my darlings. Time for bed.”

With glum, downcast faces, the troop trod out of the old sitting room and up the stairs to their beds. Flo’s husband sought out her hand on the bedside and with his eyes, motioned her closer. He coughed. The sound was enough to still Flo’s heart. A tear slipped out of her eye. Soon, an unstoppable flow was rushing down and splashing onto their hands.

“Flo,” he spoke in a faint, low voice.

“Yes, darling,” she sobbed.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Don’t say that. I need you.” She gasped.

“You need family. And you have that.”

“I love you.” She squeezed his hand.

“I love you.”

She closed her eyes. Her empty hands felt around and found a tiny pair of pants. She blinked. The sun had set and the sitting room was lit only by the glow of her work lamp. She leaned forward into the light, banishing the shadows on her aged face. A life had lived in those soft laugh lines around her mouth and eyes – a life of true happiness and love.


By: S.J. St. Pierre