Memories
Soft light, candles and oil lamps lit the room with a warm glow. An opened window let in the warm Louisiana spring air, moving the curtains with a gentle breeze. In her bedroom, slaves and the women hurried about, gathering soft cloths and basins full of water. Quiet murmuring filled the room, broken by occasional screams coming from the bed.
Faith moved through the room, wondering why all these women were in her old room, when a break in the scream drew her attention to the bed. She saw herself there, pale and sweating, her screams hoarse with the pain wracking her body. She watched herself, face as white as her linen sheets as another contraction nearly lifted her back from the bed. A midwife muttered, hands buried within the mortal Faith's body, gently coaxing out a small form. Faith continued to watch, blood tears dripping from her face as her tiny son was brought from her womb, wriggling and crying. The midwife quickly wrapped the baby in the prepared cloths and placed him on his mother's chest. Faith wrapped her arms around herself as she watched, arms aching to hold her long dead child, remembering the joy of that moment.
As the child began to suckle, the contented sounds of a mother feeding her child filled the room, the slaves and her women scurried about, putting the room to order. The afterbirth was taken, cloths and bandages tied to stop the bleeding after childbirth. A doctor came in, examined mother and child, declared them both healthy, departed. Faith watched all with longing and more tears.
Finally, the dream faded. Faith woke with a start, feeling the sun lowering on the horizon. She sat up in her bed, the same one where she had so long ago given birth to her only child and cried.
Why, she thought. Why do I think of that now? It was so long ago, he and his father dead for over a century, why remember it?
Faith moved through the room, wondering why all these women were in her old room, when a break in the scream drew her attention to the bed. She saw herself there, pale and sweating, her screams hoarse with the pain wracking her body. She watched herself, face as white as her linen sheets as another contraction nearly lifted her back from the bed. A midwife muttered, hands buried within the mortal Faith's body, gently coaxing out a small form. Faith continued to watch, blood tears dripping from her face as her tiny son was brought from her womb, wriggling and crying. The midwife quickly wrapped the baby in the prepared cloths and placed him on his mother's chest. Faith wrapped her arms around herself as she watched, arms aching to hold her long dead child, remembering the joy of that moment.
As the child began to suckle, the contented sounds of a mother feeding her child filled the room, the slaves and her women scurried about, putting the room to order. The afterbirth was taken, cloths and bandages tied to stop the bleeding after childbirth. A doctor came in, examined mother and child, declared them both healthy, departed. Faith watched all with longing and more tears.
Finally, the dream faded. Faith woke with a start, feeling the sun lowering on the horizon. She sat up in her bed, the same one where she had so long ago given birth to her only child and cried.
Why, she thought. Why do I think of that now? It was so long ago, he and his father dead for over a century, why remember it?