#and there’s this gradient in the muddy yellow of the sunflower

[why-bless-your-heart]

My mom sent me a watercolor she just did and I’m going a little crazy over it, tbh.

[caseykaydoodlesnonsense]

Sunflower Symbolism

ID: a drawing of a woman in three shades of yellow and two of brown, with brown skin and hair and a yellow dress. She is holding a large sunflower in both hands like an umbrella, so that it sits behind her head imitating a halo. She is sitting facing the left with her legs crossed while looking to the right. The background is a gradient going from a muddy yellow-brown to a light, pale yellow. 

[katricekiser-blog]

Save $fifty On A Philips Shade Starter Set.

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[vomputervirus]

Sestina

The house rests placidly on its own foundations. Leans in on itself, the strain of its skeleton under the weight of its ceilings and roof and the unfitting heirloom chandelier that hangs from the ceiling over dead-bug linoleum foyer. Sometimes in the windy months, the house resents its feeble porch and the way that it seems to shift and quake against the frozen ground. However, this morning cannot be characterized by wind – a dense stillness pushes its way through the atoms of everything today: mothball air, sweating kettle, calico feline in the corner. Static repose. Barely a trace of the swelling and deflation of the lungs trapped behind his ribs.

With three yellow-grey fingers – pointer, middle, thumb – the grandmother moves an intricate metal spoon clockwise through her unmitigated coffee, hears but does not listen to the clinks of the spoon against the inside of the porcelain tea-cup, warmth fleeing the liquid’s confinement by way of rising steam. Slight disruption of inertia. Seated, huddled, hunched over the Formica tabletop dirty with toast-crumbs and salt and smeared egg-yolk, the individual bumps of her spine are visible through faded sunflower nightgown and the loose, papery back-skin it covers.  

The boy, he is not here just for cookies, or the weekend. No father to mention; mother, he only knows in the context of white gown, white bed, quarantined white room, white covers folded neatly under her arms which always lay white and unmoving on either side of her horizontal body. And nurses, glowing in that white room, those scrubs glowing and pale green or periwinkle as one sponge-bathes her limp body every other day. Not sixteen hours ago he and the grandmother made their weekly Sunday evening trek from front stoop to ninety-two Buick to mother’s white stagnant room in Saint Augustine’s, a thirty-two minute drive.

The boy lies beneath blue-and-yellow checkered sheets in a bedroom down the hallway from the grandmother in the kitchen. Dusty light-streams cascade through the plastic blinds, stripes of light that decorate the bed and the walls and his forehead.

Come and get your breakfast, child.

The grandmother’s voice echoes through the noiseless house. The solitary sound-waves bounce through the kitchen, through the hallway, finally muffled by the door.

Your toast is warm, come eat.

The boy opens his eyes, blinks. Right eye in a stream of light, left in a shadow. The clock on his bedside table reads seven-thirty-seven. School begins at eight-fifteen. He rolls out of bed, groans through the dust-streams, and dresses himself.

* * *

Nearing the end of the school day, the boy rests his head on a stack of books and gazes out the window. Today it is fog and drizzles. Out the window, grey and darker grey – the trees against the gradient of foggy air like cracks in overcooked pottery.

He thinks about yesterday, at the hospital; he held his mother’s warm but unresponsive hand while the grandmother sat on a chair in front of the room’s television and did the Sunday crossword puzzle and glanced at the nighttime news with the volume off. Something happened that hadn’t happened before – but the boy was not sure if he had simply imagined it. He thought he felt one finger twitch. When he laid his head on her chest, felt her breathing and heartbeat, and clutched her left hand with both of his, he thought he felt the slightest pressure, the mother’s index finger against the back of his hand. However, he said nothing to the grandmother.

Once, when he was so young he could barely remember, he had thought, too, he felt a twitch. He yelled, and the grandmother cried from happiness. But the doctors ran test after test, and tried and tried to wake her up – eventually a man in a white coat put his hand on the grandmother’s shoulder and said the movement must have been imagined. The grandmother had cried for weeks.

The boy, so immersed in the window and the cracked-pottery trees and thoughts of the mother and speculations of the finger-twitch, lets his eyelids fall. Slowly and then all at once, like condensation on a glass. It is not until twenty-six minutes later that he feels a tap on his shoulder.

It is a girl – a girl in his class with a yellow headband and big eyes and dark skin. She taps his shoulder and whispers gently.

Caleb. It’s time to leave.

Waking for the second time, the boy lifts his head and opens his eyes, blinking under the classroom’s fluorescent ceiling. The girl’s face comes into focus, she lives right next door to his grandmother and they walk home together most days. She grins at him.

Did you know you talk in your sleep? Miss Jordan was teaching the times tables and you said some words no-one could understand. In your sleep. I can’t believe she doesn’t wake you, or yell at you. I don’t think anyone else could get away with that!

The boy blinks at her. A trace of a smile. He always smiles back, every day as they walk to and from school and she talks at full throttle, he stays mostly silent and listens and smiles. He really does listen, and the smiles are genuine. The girl with the yellow headband always has something to say, something interesting about the color of the sky or the worms on the sidewalk after a rainstorm. She says that the worms come out of the ground when it rains so that they don’t drown in the wet mud.

In fact, the morning after said worm-day was sunny, and as they had walked to school they found the same worm that she’d picked up, but it was baked, dried out and dead on the concrete. She had cried, and it wasn’t until they arrived back home and the grandmother put her arm around the girl and told her about worm-heaven, that her eyes had gained their usual vibrancy again.

* * *

The boy shoves his books into his backpack and zips it quietly. A bit of afternoon sun shines through the classroom windows; the fog is gone. The two make their way home and the girl jumps over puddles, her pink backpack bouncing and the sun reflecting off its sequins and zippers.

The girl hugs him as usual and bounds into her own house, yelling a final goodbye. He waves and smiles and walks up the driveway, past the grandmother’s parked Buick. He knocks on the door, and then knocks again. He imagines her leaning over the stove, baking an after-school treat; or pushing herself up, hands on knees, from her daily rest on the living-room couch, puzzle section of the newspaper always in hand. After a minute or two of no answer, he knocks again.

The sound echoes down the quiet street, but no grandmother comes to open the door with a kiss. He rings the doorbell even though he is not supposed to; the sound startles the cat, insists the grandmother. The boy rings the doorbell again, and again.

He walks around to the back of the house, the muddy yard soft under his sneakers. Knocks on the back door. Peers into the windows in the back of the house, sees that the television is on and hears it faintly through the glass. Taps on the glass but still no reply – that old television is always turned too loud, he thinks.

He tries the back door and it works – creaks open to reveal the sounds of the loud television, Spanish daytime soaps.

Grandmother?

The dense air of the house, the smell of cookies in the oven. He is hungry.

Grandmother!

Maybe she is on her way to pick him up from school right now. Most days he and the girl walk alone, but sometimes the grandmother meets the two of them at the schoolyard gates, and the girl asks the grandmother questions about the sun and the birds and the nineteen-fifties the whole way home. However, they would have passed by her on the route today. And the car is in the driveway; she is not out on any errands.

The boy walks into the television-room. A mug of tea sits on the coffee-table, cold. The tea from this morning.

A knock on the front door.

The boy walks to the foyer, peeks out the window and there stands the girl, yellow headband pushed a little too far forwards, creating a messy nest of black hair on her head. She sticks her tongue out and fidgets with the doorknob excitedly. He opens it and she bounds into the house.

Where is your grandmother! Can you come outside? The worms are on the sidewalk and we need to move them back to the grass before they dry up!

The boy shakes his head.

I haven’t seen her. She may be in the bathroom. I came in the back door.

Well, let’s find her!

The girl bounds into the kitchen, eager to ask the grandmother if the boy may accompany her outdoors.

She screams.

The grandmother lies face-down on the kitchen floor. A broken ceramic plate is next to her, and toast-and-jam, also face-down. The refrigerator is open.

Grandmother.

The boy runs to her side, kneels down, taps her head urgently.

The girl stands, shocked, still. Yellow headband almost down to her forehead now, pushing hair into her wide and scared and watering eyes.

The boy grabs the grandmother’s hand, shakes it around. No response. Just like his mother, except the grandmother’s hand is cold. Even colder than usual. That paper-thin skin, no blood courses beneath it. The grandmother is a sack of stagnant blood and bone. The boy rests his head on her sunflower-dress chest and weeps.

* * *

The ambulance sirens grow louder as they approach the house. Having learned from an early age to dial nine-one-one in case of emergency, the girl had run to the landline in the television room and dialed the number. The woman who answered had startled her, and she met the woman’s inquiries with shell-shocked silence.

We are sending over an ambulance and the police, the woman on the line had said.

Five minutes later, the authorities have arrived.

The boy, still crouched over the grandmother, feels large hands lift him from the floor and prop him up. A man in a police uniform bends down to meet him at eye level.

Is this your grandmother?

The boy nods.

Where are your parents? Do you have a phone number we can reach them on?

The boy shakes his head. Eyes begin to glisten, lip trembling. There are men rolling the grandmother onto a stretcher now. Face-up, she lies there. Eyes open. Grape jam smeared on the front of her nightgown.

The cop touches the boy’s face with calloused fingers. Turns it away from the grandmother, looks into his eyes.

Let’s get you out of here.

Takes the boy’s hand and leads him outside to the front yard. The girl is speaking to a woman officer who is nodding. The girl holds hands with her mother, who had heard the sirens and run to make sure her baby was okay.

The cop leads the boy to the street. Opens the back door of his police-car, and gestures for the boy to step in.

We are just going down to the station to fill out some paperwork. We will ask you questions when you are ready. For now, you can choose the radio station. I am sorry.

The boy looks out the window, does not respond.

The worms on the driveway bake in the beating sun.