Rose?

She sat at the piano. Cream colored, lace dress. Ivory skin, and fingers graced the white keys. It was her mother’s choice that she learn the piano. Her father said, “Only a fine, young lady  who held such grace on the keyboard, would draw the attention of a handsome, wealthy gentleman caller”.

She hated the piano. She hated the music that came out of it. She didn’t like being a lady, if this was what it was all about. Wealthy, young gentleman caller? She would rather be out of doors, with her chalk in hand, sitting under some nice, fat shade tree, drawing her heart away.

Her parents wanted nothing to do with her desire for art.What gentleman would be interested in a woman who sat and did nothing? She got so sick of hearing this nonsense talk. What about her own desires? Was she not to be happy? Did she have to give in to the demands of others who didn’t live within her skin?

Every day she practiced for two hours. She was granted a break, from which she would hastily go to her room, throw off that prissy dress, and return to her more comfortable clothes. Even though it had to be a dress, it was cotton. Much more breathable and easier to sit down upon the velvety grass with pad in hand.

As soon as her chores were done, as soon as her mother could find nothing else for her to practice being a lady with, she took off out the back door and ran to the field where her tree with the flowing branches seemed to call her by name.

It was there that she was sketching when a shadow came upon her. She turned and there stood a white stallion. On top of him, sat the most erect, handsome man she had ever seen in her life.

The smile he produced, made her heart skip a beat. She quickly turned from him and went about her business of finishing her first picture. He got off of his horse, and without an invitation, came and sat beside her.

He said nothing, but she could feel his eyes upon her. She dare not look at him or she would lose her concentration on her work. He said not a word, until she lay her chalk aside and held her pad up to the light, checking for any mistakes she may have made.

“Brilliant, just brilliant. I have run across a true artist. Please, my lady, may I know the name you are called? Could it be anything other than Rose? Such a beautiful lady should have no other birth name”.

“You really like my work? My parents don’t approve of what I do. They say it is a waste of time and that art is nothing that would draw a wealthy gentleman looking for a bride”. He took her hand in his and he ever so tenderly kissed it. He handed it back to her and looking her directly in her eyes said, ” I am a wealthy gentleman, looking for a bride”.

Write About a Time When You Felt Loved

https://magicinthebackyard.wordpress.com/2016/02/01/hello-february/

I write for Kellie Elmore, and it is a pure joy.

 

Feb. 17th,-Write about a time when you felt loved

 

I have told this story too many times; but here is an opportunity to tell it once again, for Kellie’s prompt.

My brother had Multiple System Atrophy. It is a terrible disease with no cure. His body started out with tremors, then falls, a cane, wheelchair and then bed bound. During this process, he lost his ability to communicate by mouth, or other variations I could think of.

Eventually, he ended up in his bed, unable to move any muscles. The one muscle that he needed the worst, was the heart, and it eventually stopped also.

Al, my brother, had issues. He was mentally challenged and he had always lived at home with our parents. Our father didn’t understand my brother very well, and a lot of times it was easier for the two not to be together too often.

Communication was not very good between the two, and there was love between father and son, but it wasn’t shown near enough. Our mother passed away, and then it was dad and Al.

Then dad passed away, and then it was me and Al. I took care of  him those seven years while we fought together the MSA. Al tended to look at me as some big boss. I hated that because I wanted him to see me as his sister. He saw me as an authority figure, and transferred his ill feelings from his dad to me.

All those seven years, I spoiled him rotten. I did everything in my power to show him I was not dad. I tried over and over proving to him how much I loved him. I never really knew how Al felt about me, and it disturbed me so very much; especially as his death was something we could not avoid coming.

As I said earlier, Al lost all muscle control. We don’t think about what that really involves, so I will add a few things it changed in his life. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move his head, arms, legs. He couldn’t blink or squeeze my fingers. There was nothing to signal except the rise and fall of his lungs.

I pretended that he could hear me. I refused to believe he couldn’t. You see, with M.S.A. usually the memory stayed in tact. I was told he probably would never forget who I was to him.

We went for several weeks with me reading to  him, watching TV with him. I knew he couldn’t see the TV, but I was pretty sure he could hear it. I rubbed his hand and told me how much I loved him.

One day as it was nearing a few days before his passing, something major happened in his and my life. Al spoke. It wasn’t fog; it was clear as a bell. He opened his eyes, which I hadn’t seen those baby blues for so long and he looked right at me.

He said, ” Sis, I want to thank you for being my sis. I want you to  know that I know you did everything for me you could. It is time for me to go to heaven. Remember one thing for me. I love you sis, and I will save a spot in heaven for you”.

I am crying as I write this. Those words meant more to  me than probably anything else in this world except the birth of my three children. The burning question that had kept me up for nights upon nights and had stressed over for so long, had been answered. He loved me.

I miss you brother dear. I will see you soon.