My Dear Boy
Title: "My Dear Boy"
Author: Vangelynn
Rating: G
Genre: Reflective
Summary: Mother's love has a true beginning.
Diclaimer: I OWN EVERYTHING!
A/N: Okays~ This is is part of the reason why there's no Serving 5 today. Hope you enjoy, though, if you're going to read. Was little present for the mothers that I had to make cards for.
________________
Mother’s love has a true beginning like the morning dove’s hail of daybreak. The church bells mark it as they resound through the forest. It spreads like the taint of the wind. A hushed touch, looking for someone in the trail of morn to meet.
She feels it. The breeze whispered the night’s by-goings in her ear and then danced away. Her bare feet brush against the damp grass as her white dress trails behind her.
A white bud that doubted the morning sun and waited for the higher rise stood innocently under the shade, barely touching the beams. She bent down and picked it gently, choosing four more side by side identical to it. The flower’s fragrance drew out of the clasped petals scenting her hands. Once she felt like it was complete, she untied the ribbon that held her hair together, letting it fall off like silk before using it to secure the flowers together.
She cradled the bouquet in her arms the same way she held Her Dear Boy when he was born. His soft cooing was unfamiliar yet welcomed by the forest that morning when she first brought him out. She almost felt his small helpless form in her arms as she walked.
The light was still soft and the ground new as she strolled.
Her Dear Boy is walking beside her. Toddling around awkwardly, his chubby fist thrown into his mouth.
He had held onto her with his free hand, for fear releasing would drag him into the daunting forest.
The creek sounds a far distance off, trickling soundly, just waking up from the night’s peace.
Her Dear Boy is hacking a twig into a tree trunk, curious to see what was underneath.
She had reprimanded him that trees were not to loose their bark or else they would grow unhealthy and cease to bloom. He had nodded, understanding completely that his mother’s words were law.
She crosses the miniature bridge that arched over the pond.
Her Dear Boy is sitting on the edge; kicking his legs in the air absently as he leaned forward viewing his own boyish smile in the water.
They had sat there side by side, her legs dangling over the water, as he had told her about his day at school. How he stood up for her when the other children insulted her. She had tossed his curls and told him how proud she was to have such a loyal son.
The sun warmed her face as it peeks through the trees sending prints on the grass and wallpaper patterns on the trunks and on the vines that had been tangled and weaved together decade after decade to create an ivy wall.
Her Dear Boy is sitting on an over turned log, looking up dreamily at a bird that was perched above him warbling sweetly. It was the same bird that had leaned next to her son’s window and sang him to sleep when he was fighting pneumonia.
She had served him day and night by his side, reading to him, coaxing him to eat, or just sitting beside him while she stared at the window praying silently. Sometimes, that was all that he needed.
The dew had dried off the grass, as the blades brushed her feet, almost harshly.
Her Dear Boy is resting against a tree, completely exhausted. Covered in mud, his trousers torn, revealing scrapes underneath. A dark blotch surrounded his swollen eye and a fresh scar blazed his cheek.
She had shaken her head in strong disapproval as she mended the ragged clothes by the fireplace. Sometimes looking at him curled up in the corner, wondering what he was coming to.
She peers past the over growth of rose bushes and birch towards the open hills before the clearing and watched as the grass licked the wind like silk when it was being pressed.
Her Dear Boy is there, arms folded beneath his head, lying on the grass and staring at the clouds.
She had mused with him on the empty hills and traced the clouds with their finger tips, trying to map out their past. The teenager had voiced out his dreams and never-will-be wishes to her, opening up his dreamy mind and imagination.
The morning sun was no longer gentle. It started its climb; its unfriendly beams streaming through the trees. The bouquet of buds threatened to shrivel as she refused to hurry her walk.
Her Dear Boy is settled in a small patch surrounded by forget-me-nots, meditating deeply.
She had been there at the same place, touching his rough forehead, asking herself if this serious youth was the same boy who played a prank on the choir master and hid the minister’s glasses before the service. The book that lay open on his lap with its pages worn through from use was the same Bible that he had been coaxed and bribed to read as a child.
She entered a growth of willows trailing down in an orderly line; their curtains covered their trunks, as they waved sentimentally in the wind with a faint whisper of sorrow.
Her Dear Boy is standing in front of the lavish drapes, dressed in uniform, back straight like a board, and a salute over a worn helmet.
He had visited her as she read under the moon light and begged her to let him enlist. Reasoning that the country needed him and all his friends had gone. She gave it more thought than she dared to. She could not hand over her son to war. But his restlessness had ached her heart, knowing that she had held him from what he wanted because of her own selfishness.
She had held onto his thankful embrace when she agreed to let him go.
The forest hushed as she neared her destination, the buds falling lightly on her hands. The birds went silent, the animals didn’t dare move, and the wind ceased.
Her Dear Boy is standing before her. Her heart warmed, as he stood straight, smiling the same smile that beamed from his face the first time he had brought her flowers for Mother’s Day.
Her Dear Boy reached his hand out towards her. I’m home, Mother.
She answered, trying to clasp his in return. Instead of the assuring warmth of his grasp a cold slicing stone met her hand.
She fell to her knees; the tears trailing down her cheeks, refusing to accept reality. The memories dissolved, Her Dear Boy’s laughter echoed away, drowning into the forest noise. The lovely images of him faded as the wind blew past her, waving her white dress as a flag of surrender.
She laid her head against the stone slab, the tears raining on the pale buds that were placed on the grave.
Mother’s love begins like the morning dove’s hail of the daybreak. It spreads like the chime of the church bells. Like the wind's breath of regret and assurance, it is endless.
________________
After Story Author Side Notes:
- I know what you're thinking. "Omahgosh, that was so short! How could that take her a week to do?!" :P I said it was part of the reason. I also had to finish this speech that some one >__> was too lazy to finish.
- Hoped you like it though. I thought it was some what corny, since I've never written this style before. I wanted to do something funny, but I was assured by people that mothers would appreciate this better.
- I also hope you got the ending >.<
- Oh and it turns out that the mothers would have appreciated a happy ending O_O They didn't seem to like the sad turn of events. Oh well...There's always next year.
Author: Vangelynn
Rating: G
Genre: Reflective
Summary: Mother's love has a true beginning.
Diclaimer: I OWN EVERYTHING!
A/N: Okays~ This is is part of the reason why there's no Serving 5 today. Hope you enjoy, though, if you're going to read. Was little present for the mothers that I had to make cards for.
________________
Mother’s love has a true beginning like the morning dove’s hail of daybreak. The church bells mark it as they resound through the forest. It spreads like the taint of the wind. A hushed touch, looking for someone in the trail of morn to meet.
She feels it. The breeze whispered the night’s by-goings in her ear and then danced away. Her bare feet brush against the damp grass as her white dress trails behind her.
A white bud that doubted the morning sun and waited for the higher rise stood innocently under the shade, barely touching the beams. She bent down and picked it gently, choosing four more side by side identical to it. The flower’s fragrance drew out of the clasped petals scenting her hands. Once she felt like it was complete, she untied the ribbon that held her hair together, letting it fall off like silk before using it to secure the flowers together.
She cradled the bouquet in her arms the same way she held Her Dear Boy when he was born. His soft cooing was unfamiliar yet welcomed by the forest that morning when she first brought him out. She almost felt his small helpless form in her arms as she walked.
The light was still soft and the ground new as she strolled.
Her Dear Boy is walking beside her. Toddling around awkwardly, his chubby fist thrown into his mouth.
He had held onto her with his free hand, for fear releasing would drag him into the daunting forest.
The creek sounds a far distance off, trickling soundly, just waking up from the night’s peace.
Her Dear Boy is hacking a twig into a tree trunk, curious to see what was underneath.
She had reprimanded him that trees were not to loose their bark or else they would grow unhealthy and cease to bloom. He had nodded, understanding completely that his mother’s words were law.
She crosses the miniature bridge that arched over the pond.
Her Dear Boy is sitting on the edge; kicking his legs in the air absently as he leaned forward viewing his own boyish smile in the water.
They had sat there side by side, her legs dangling over the water, as he had told her about his day at school. How he stood up for her when the other children insulted her. She had tossed his curls and told him how proud she was to have such a loyal son.
The sun warmed her face as it peeks through the trees sending prints on the grass and wallpaper patterns on the trunks and on the vines that had been tangled and weaved together decade after decade to create an ivy wall.
Her Dear Boy is sitting on an over turned log, looking up dreamily at a bird that was perched above him warbling sweetly. It was the same bird that had leaned next to her son’s window and sang him to sleep when he was fighting pneumonia.
She had served him day and night by his side, reading to him, coaxing him to eat, or just sitting beside him while she stared at the window praying silently. Sometimes, that was all that he needed.
The dew had dried off the grass, as the blades brushed her feet, almost harshly.
Her Dear Boy is resting against a tree, completely exhausted. Covered in mud, his trousers torn, revealing scrapes underneath. A dark blotch surrounded his swollen eye and a fresh scar blazed his cheek.
She had shaken her head in strong disapproval as she mended the ragged clothes by the fireplace. Sometimes looking at him curled up in the corner, wondering what he was coming to.
She peers past the over growth of rose bushes and birch towards the open hills before the clearing and watched as the grass licked the wind like silk when it was being pressed.
Her Dear Boy is there, arms folded beneath his head, lying on the grass and staring at the clouds.
She had mused with him on the empty hills and traced the clouds with their finger tips, trying to map out their past. The teenager had voiced out his dreams and never-will-be wishes to her, opening up his dreamy mind and imagination.
The morning sun was no longer gentle. It started its climb; its unfriendly beams streaming through the trees. The bouquet of buds threatened to shrivel as she refused to hurry her walk.
Her Dear Boy is settled in a small patch surrounded by forget-me-nots, meditating deeply.
She had been there at the same place, touching his rough forehead, asking herself if this serious youth was the same boy who played a prank on the choir master and hid the minister’s glasses before the service. The book that lay open on his lap with its pages worn through from use was the same Bible that he had been coaxed and bribed to read as a child.
She entered a growth of willows trailing down in an orderly line; their curtains covered their trunks, as they waved sentimentally in the wind with a faint whisper of sorrow.
Her Dear Boy is standing in front of the lavish drapes, dressed in uniform, back straight like a board, and a salute over a worn helmet.
He had visited her as she read under the moon light and begged her to let him enlist. Reasoning that the country needed him and all his friends had gone. She gave it more thought than she dared to. She could not hand over her son to war. But his restlessness had ached her heart, knowing that she had held him from what he wanted because of her own selfishness.
She had held onto his thankful embrace when she agreed to let him go.
The forest hushed as she neared her destination, the buds falling lightly on her hands. The birds went silent, the animals didn’t dare move, and the wind ceased.
Her Dear Boy is standing before her. Her heart warmed, as he stood straight, smiling the same smile that beamed from his face the first time he had brought her flowers for Mother’s Day.
Her Dear Boy reached his hand out towards her. I’m home, Mother.
She answered, trying to clasp his in return. Instead of the assuring warmth of his grasp a cold slicing stone met her hand.
She fell to her knees; the tears trailing down her cheeks, refusing to accept reality. The memories dissolved, Her Dear Boy’s laughter echoed away, drowning into the forest noise. The lovely images of him faded as the wind blew past her, waving her white dress as a flag of surrender.
She laid her head against the stone slab, the tears raining on the pale buds that were placed on the grave.
Mother’s love begins like the morning dove’s hail of the daybreak. It spreads like the chime of the church bells. Like the wind's breath of regret and assurance, it is endless.
________________
After Story Author Side Notes:
- I know what you're thinking. "Omahgosh, that was so short! How could that take her a week to do?!" :P I said it was part of the reason. I also had to finish this speech that some one >__> was too lazy to finish.
- Hoped you like it though. I thought it was some what corny, since I've never written this style before. I wanted to do something funny, but I was assured by people that mothers would appreciate this better.
- I also hope you got the ending >.<
- Oh and it turns out that the mothers would have appreciated a happy ending O_O They didn't seem to like the sad turn of events. Oh well...There's always next year.