A Quiet Moment

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked monotonously, rhythmically. Minutes passed, and Sarah remained sitting and staring ahead. At last, a moment just to sit and take a breather. Have a cup of tea. A moment when nothing was expected of her. And then the crying began. Intermittently, at first, and then increasing in speed and volume and octave. She continued to sit there, the incessant crying as far away from her thoughts as the clock ticking on the mantelpiece.

More minutes passed, she assumed, but wasn't sure. Maybe it was only seconds. She was vaguely aware of the distant cries, as far as the next room. And yet she couldn't bring herself to move. Her tea grew cold beside her. She couldn't move. Not that she couldn't, she wouldn't.

Every day started at 5am. Blearily, she would pull herself out from under her warm, soft doona, and pad to the cradle at other end of the room. Michael would stir from the other side of the bed, turn, and begin snoring again. She would pick up the little crying bundle from the cradle, and press the warm body into hers. It was motherly love, but it was still 5am, Michael was still asleep, and all she could hope for was a cup of tea. She would carry the bundle into the living room and place her on the change mat. Change her, then feed her, then leave her lying on a blanket in the living room, so she could turn the kettle on. Then Jessica would cry, and she would never get to have her cup of tea.

Michael was always in a rush to leave for work. He needed to be on site at 7am, so she would have his instant coffee poured, and his toast buttered as he raced into the shower. With a brief peck on the cheek, he was out the door. Her tea from earlier would now be cold, but she took the liberty of chowing down her cold toast, as Jessica lay momentarily at peace, watching the branches moving in the breeze outside.

It was a good day if a shower made the agenda, if Jessica fell asleep after Michael had left for work. After her shower, she would whip around the house, cleaning surfaces, throwing nappies and the rest into the washing machine. She would rinse the dishes, stack the machine, and then Jessica would be awake again.

But today she had done it all, and Jessica had still been sleeping, so she had bravely put the kettle on once more, and with her hot cup of tea, sat down in the living room with nothing to do. That's when the cries had begun, and Sarah could simply not bring herself to get up.

So far, in the two months since Jessica's birth, motherhood had been full of unfulfilled promises. She had felt no bliss, no motherly tenderness, no pride, no elation. Her body still ached, and more so now, with her tired and sleepless muscles.

Everything between her and Michael was so different now. For nine years, they had lived and travelled together, saved money and had bought a house. She would describe their home as enchanting and warm – an old worker's cottage that had been renovated in the last twenty years. When she turned 31, they decided to try and have a baby. They were financially secure, and they were a rock solid couple, who barely ever fought. While friends divorced and disintegrated around them, Sarah and Michael whistled through with barely a scratch.

Michael had wanted kids from the beginning. He was one of four himself, so large families were familiar to him. When Sarah fell pregnant, he cried for the first time in their marriage. He braced her like scaffolding, forever cautious of every movement she made. He watched what she ate, and never let alcohol or any other dangerous substance pass her lips. During the labour, he stood beside her for the entire twenty-six hours, wiping her forehead with cool towels and offering her sips of water. And when Jessica was born, he cried again. Wept – his shoulders heaving, and tears streaming, uninterrupted, down his cheeks.

But after the honeymoon, it had all changed. He'd gone back to work, and his life had resumed as normal. Hers was now completely different. Where she once was able to pop out, see a movie, have a coffee with a girlfriend, she was bound to her house, that now seemed small and empty and cold. Her friends that had promised regular visits were busy with their own lives, and had only been round once, or maybe twice. She couldn't deny that Jessica was precious, with her tiny fingers wrapped around hers, but it wasn't enough to fill the empty house, and the long weary days. When Michael arrived home, all she wanted to do was throw the baby at him, and disappear into the bedroom, close the curtains and the door, block out any noise. But that was when Jessica needed her most, as she cried more in the evening, and refused to be consoled by anyone other than her mother. And Michael was tired from work. All he wanted to do was sit down, eat, and watch television. She'd complain about her tiredness, and the crying, and the dirty laundry. Michael would gently console her, then continue eating, and tell her about his day, or about something on the news. She could see from his face he didn't want to talk about her problems – the same problems every day. Besides, as he always reminded her, she got to stay home all day with their beautiful daughter – if only he should be so lucky. Eventually she gave up, knowing that he'd never understand. By the time she'd bathed, fed and put Jessica to sleep, then cooked dinner, and helped Michael with the washing up, Sarah was too tired to even stand, let alone watch television, or talk with Michael. So she'd go to bed. Jessica would wake throughout the night, and then at 5am, it all began again.

The crying continued. Louder, more aggressive. Screams that sounded like they might rupture the tiny vocal cords. Sarah got up, hesitated, then walked out the front door. The screams withered behind her as she closed the door. She walked up the path, through the trellis, covered by wisteria in full bloom. The daylight was bright and harsh against the pavement. Vacantly, she headed down the street. What was the worst thing that would happen? Jessica might scream until she fell back asleep. She couldn't damage herself, could she? She wouldn't remember this episode, the day she had to cry and cry while her mother walked away. Sarah shuddered to think what Michael would say if she told him. He would be horrified. Perhaps he would never forgive her. He might never trust her again.

She stopped at the intersection. The screams were now inaudible. All she could hear was traffic, and a tram approaching. He would never trust her again. Jessica might never trust her again. Maybe she would never go to sleep again, for fear of waking alone and abandoned.

Even without the screams, and in a whole other planet outside her little house, Jessica wouldn't go away. She was in every moment, and every thought. And yet Sarah felt hollow, standing there at the intersection. She touched her chest, and realised that she had left her top buttons undone.

A tram clunked past as she turned around, and headed back towards home. She looked down at the pavement as she passed a young couple pushing a stroller. Who was she – this monster, with her hair in disarray and her shirt undone, walking the streets while her baby cried herself to shreds? She began to run, her heart pounding as she entered the house. The screaming continued, and she threw herself into the bedroom. She picked up Jessica, who was limp, red and drenched in sweat from all the crying, and pressed her to her breast, tears running down her face.

This story was written a year or so ago, when creative writing consumed my life, temporarily. I read a post by The Little Mumma today that inspired me to share this story on my blog. Thank you Angie, as always, for the inspiration....

The Olive Tree

Everyone is having an afternoon nap. I push open the back screen door, and run down the driveway through the paddock to the bottom of the property. My olive tree is waiting for me. Her branches welcome me into her centre.

I sit on her knobbly roots, made for a small bottom like mine. Brittle leaves carpet her interior. Next to me, is a door, big enough only for the miniature family of bears that live inside. Above me, I can see the branches that Mr Lizard jumps from with glee, wearing his red top hat, and chewing on a piece of grass. Lily, the fairy princess, also lives in the old olive tree. Her room is at the very top. She and I are best friends.

For hours, Lily, my bear friends and I gossip about the other creatures in the wood. We talk about the mean old King, who lives in the sausage tree next door, and counts his money. He never lends any to anyone else. We talk about Mrs Magpie, who is really very dotty, and is always forgetting her keys. Mrs Bear complains about her husband, and her noisy children. I sympathise briefly, before her daughter tells me her mother is very strict.

The sky is clear and the air is dry. We gaze through her old branches as a single cloud travels past. The grass around her is the colour of sand.

I hear the bell on my brother's bike, and the scrape of gravel. I say goodbye to my friends, and run towards the driveway.

The Write on Wednesday Spark - The nature of place
Think about a place in nature that feels special to you. Perhaps it is somewhere you visited as a child. Or maybe you share a special outdoor space with your own children. This place, this space will be your prompt for this week's writing exercise. Write about a particular natural geography, a natural place or space close to your heart. Tell us about the weather, the landform , the creatures who live there, what the place means to you and why. You can write prose fiction, poetry, non-fiction and/or a photographic narrative. You might mix the landscape with a personal story. Wherever the prompt take you...Let us peek into your place.

Grey water

Meg marches through the tall grass. It whips her bare legs, and her feet crush dry leaves. The evening is clammy. Sweat drips between her breasts. She can't see clearly, but can smell the sea, so heads towards it.

The roar of the ocean takes her by surprise. Stepping onto the sand, the clamminess is broken by dry, salt air. It sticks to her skin.

She runs now. Her thighs ache as she pushes herself through the sand. It swallows her feet. She runs towards the water and pauses only briefly before crashing through the small, grey waves. She runs deeper, against the pull, and at last throws herself into the fury of the salt and the water. She is submerged, yelling now, as her mouth and nose fill and her eyes sting.

When she breaks through the surface, the sky is grey, the water is grey. But she is clear.

This piece is the first WoW for 2012. Check out other WoW pieces. Below is the prompt:

The Write on Wednesday spark: The stories a tree could tell.
Take a look at the above photo (by Story). Use it to inspire your Write on Wednesday post. Keep your post on the short side: up to 500 words OR a 5 minute stream of consciousness exercise. Link your finished piece to the list and begin popping by the other links in the list. Enjoy!