Category: Writing

I’ve been holding my stale breath for what seems an age. I release the musty, dusty, time-worn puff in one lingering whiff. The old, bent figure of a woman startles for a moment, but then shuffles deeper into my innards. Something about the way she moves reminds me of yesteryear. The wind shifts outside, my half open door creaks, branches brush my windows, the keys tinkling in her bent hands. “So, you’re still standing, eh, Maggie. Your bones aren’t a wee bit broken,” she mutters…a memory flashes through my hall, down the twisty staircase, a bit of ashes stirring on the forgotten stone hearth. I shift a little, creaking and groaning. That name rings a bell… “Maggie”, memory whistles up the chimney and into the gloaming. These old rafters and cobwebbed corners aren’t what they used to be, but they remember. Time-stamped. She shakes out her rough dress, along with the gloom and pats the shrouded furniture. “Such promise, such love, wee lass, you were filled to the over brimming.” Birdsong bursts forth out of doors and I’m flashing back to a young servant lovingly scrubbing my wooden floor to a golden-hued gleam. “I dub you Margaret,” she had whispered to me, “after my sweet departed mother.” She lifted her small pale face, dark curls pulled back in a very similar kerchief that she wears even now, old wise eyes caressing me down to the last rusty, hand-hewn nail. She had come to us, myself and the family, through tragedy. A motherless waif that brought joy to the widower and his young son. Her cheerful songs, bubbling, snapping eager quickness brought all out of the gloom of our missing mistress. Memories stirred as she pulls off sheets, fingers dusty frames, and creeps quietly about, reverently. But then things turned, I remember now, shivering deep. The youngster and herself were swept away by a rush of water, he never to be found. Master blamed the sweet lass, but it were a freak thing. I sigh again, a bit of dust shaking down from loft. So much loss. She looks up, green eyes still sharp, “ Well, Maggie ‘ole girl. It seems I’ve been forgiven, heavens be praised, “ she mumbles a bit grimly. “In yet another death, there’s yet a bit more life worth living,” that small smile I now well remember sneaking out. She rustles in her gray striped apron pocket, a creased letter pulled out. I shift and squint to get a good look. It’s a letter about a will, Master has passed, leaving me to her! I rustle a bit in contentment. The warmth, delicious smells, and care she gave flashes in again. The will goes on to say that he knew how much his son loved her and how much I meant to both of them. “Well, let’s see if we can love ye a wee back into health, old friend.” She grabs the old wooden bucket and heads out to the stream, I’m for sure certain. Love has come home again.

A.M. Pine

🖼️♥️I’ve been loving the newsletter of Austin Kleon and he recently quoted Amy Krouse Rosenthal and it really struck me! She said, “Pay attention to what you pay attention to” or something along those lines. It really got me inspired, so my online writing group and I, Kim, Christi, and Sam are working on pieces that are inspired by the things we’re “paying attention to”! I’m really excited about this project and hope to continue it here at my blog even after our group completes the initial challenge. What about you? What’s inspiring you? Have you ever specifically created your own creative piece off someone else’s work? 😄♥️🖼️