Ficlets and Ficly survivor, FicMom, and Mistress of Well-Intentioned Indecision and Goddess of Unrequited Love. @ElshaHawk @HawkandYoung
When the storm abated, we emerged to tie things down and try to get a fire going to dry some clothes. I carried chunks of wax in paper egg cartons for fire starter and we found plenty of downed sassafras, which burns when wet. Mom and her covers were still soaked and she refused to let us unwrap her. It was dark when dad exclaimed that mom was burning up with fever.
Sister dug through her bags to find her last aspirin, our last hope. It was an uncomfortable night as we sat in damp, chafing underthings, worried about a fever that wouldn't break.
Sometime in the darkest hours before dawn she began to cry out. Hallucinations brought on by the fever. She saw angels and cried tears of awe. One skinny arm reached up, fingers splayed, yearning to grasp the hand of eternity.
She smiled and sank down into sleep. Dad wept, causing everyone to shed tears. Even I did, for sorrow is contagious. We made a place for her down in a ravine. All the hilltops were covered in trees so there was no place to dig.
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Inspired by (sequel to):
The journey was tough on the elders. His mom had the worst time. She needed to stop and rest often. …Storm
- Published 4 years ago.
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