There was never a rule book for being a mother- my mother often reminded me of this. But there was never a rule book for being a child either, I never failed to think afterwards. I couldn't tell her that however, oh no, I would be skinned alive. But despite my mother's strict laws I loved her dearly. At night I would settle down in the hay nesting, and she come over and read me a story. It was a different story every time, but it always had the same moral: "Be kind to others and they will be kind back to you."
One day we were picking berries in the forest, so my mother could make a berry cake when Papa got home. We each had a basket in the crook of our arms, hers was bigger than mine, of course. We would fill our baskets to the rim, and then deposit them into a sack, which Mother would carry home. As I was dumping my second basket, I noticed something besides it. Placing my basket down I leaned over and peered at it. To me it looked like a tangle of feathers. I slowly, carefully, picked it up, and knew right away that it was bird. It was limp and cold in my hands, and I started crying. I didn't know what death was then.
My mother hurried over, and when she saw me holding the bird she said quietly "Oh." I looked up at her as she wiped my tears away, then held me close and looked down at the bird. "My, my, my." She said, shaking her head. "Poor little thing."
"But what's wrong?" I bawled. "Why won't it wake up?"
My mother smiled sadly and took the bird from me, holding it gently in her cupped hands. I stared at the bird among the berry juice that stained her palms.
"Shh...listen." She whispered. I looked up at her, before holding my breath. The wind rustled the leaves of the tree, but everything else was silent. The birds, which usually sang their gay songs, were silent, as if they knew what had happened to their companion. I swallowed.
"I don't hear anything, Momma." I whispered. "Nothing except the wind."
"Exactly. But that isn't the wind, dear. That's the angels whispering. Do you know what angels are, Natalya?" I shook my head. "Angels are beautiful women and men who take us away from this world when our time is over."
I started crying again. "But why would they take you away? That's mean!" I sobbed, wiping my tears away with the back of my hand.
"Oh, darling. They are taking us to a better place, where everyone lives in peace and are always happy. There isn't war, or hunger, or thirst. That's where this bird is going right now, escorted by the beautiful women and men. Don't be sad, alright?" I nodded, and my mother placed the bird at the base of a tree trunk, smoothing its ruffled feathers and dumping her basket into the sack. "I think that's enough." She said, picking up the sack gently and started to trot home. I followed behind, glancing back at the bird and thinking about angels, and the wonderful place they take you to.
Several years later I was wandering through the forest, a pack slung over my shoulder. I was coming back from visiting my dear friend Vesca. The woods were eerily silent that afternoon, and no matter what I did I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was like a stone in my stomach, and a dead weight over my shoulders. As I walked I hummed quietly to myself, concentrating on the path in front of me instead of the silence.
When I got home, the house was as silent as the woods. I dropped the pack by the door and didn't even wipe my hooves as I ran into the living room.
"Ma!" I called. "Mother, where are you?" The house remained silent. Wiping my sweaty palms on my roan coat, I walked slowly through the house, calling her name. I checked the kitchen, her room, even my room. She wasn't there. It wasn't until I started to walk out the front door did I see the note tacked to it.
Natalya-
Went to pick berries and mushrooms for desert tonight. Be back soon.
-Mother
I checked the clock hanging on the wall. It was past noon, and mother never stayed out late. Panicked, I shoved open the door and ran outside.
I galloped into the woods, taking the old, worn out path next to our house. I knew what had happened without knowing exactly. My mother had been sick for quite some time, and all the doctors said the same thing: "She'll get better, or she won't. Wait and see, and make sure she gets rest." Every time they told us, me and my father exchanged looks, wringing our hands nervously and nodding.
My mother was lying on the ground. When I saw her, she saw me as well, and smiled.
"Natalya." She said quietly, hoarsely. "Help me up." I bit my lip and helped her to her feet. We said nothing on the slow walk home, but neither of us needed words.
That night as I was heading for bed, my mother called me into her room. I walked in slowly. The room was lit by a dim lamp, and I stumbled over something once or twice. Nonetheless, I could see my mother's smiling face, as worn as the path was. I stood besides her bed, and she took my hand gently.
"Natalya, my sweet." She whispered, brushing my hand against her cheek. "I am old, and my heart doesn't want to keep me any more. Listen to the angels whisper tonight." The words struck a knife in my heart, but I blinked back tears and nodded.
"I will, Ma." I whispered. Then, leaning over, I kissed her cheek and turned off the lamp. She patted my hand in the darkness for a moment, before letting go and pulling the covers up to her shoulders. I didn't stumble on anything on the way out.
In the morning I walked slowly into her room again. I was in no hurry, I knew what was there. Sure enough, there was my mother, curled up under the blankets. She was cold when I touched her hand. My father came in shortly after, his face looking much older than it ever had. Without a word he wrapped his arms around me, and we both cried silently. The morning light was streaming in from the open window, and I could hear the leaves dancing in the wind.
"Sounds like the wind is coming to take her away." My father murmured softly, rubbing my shoulders.
"No, Pa. That's the angels whispering. They'll bring her home safely."
One day we were picking berries in the forest, so my mother could make a berry cake when Papa got home. We each had a basket in the crook of our arms, hers was bigger than mine, of course. We would fill our baskets to the rim, and then deposit them into a sack, which Mother would carry home. As I was dumping my second basket, I noticed something besides it. Placing my basket down I leaned over and peered at it. To me it looked like a tangle of feathers. I slowly, carefully, picked it up, and knew right away that it was bird. It was limp and cold in my hands, and I started crying. I didn't know what death was then.
My mother hurried over, and when she saw me holding the bird she said quietly "Oh." I looked up at her as she wiped my tears away, then held me close and looked down at the bird. "My, my, my." She said, shaking her head. "Poor little thing."
"But what's wrong?" I bawled. "Why won't it wake up?"
My mother smiled sadly and took the bird from me, holding it gently in her cupped hands. I stared at the bird among the berry juice that stained her palms.
"Shh...listen." She whispered. I looked up at her, before holding my breath. The wind rustled the leaves of the tree, but everything else was silent. The birds, which usually sang their gay songs, were silent, as if they knew what had happened to their companion. I swallowed.
"I don't hear anything, Momma." I whispered. "Nothing except the wind."
"Exactly. But that isn't the wind, dear. That's the angels whispering. Do you know what angels are, Natalya?" I shook my head. "Angels are beautiful women and men who take us away from this world when our time is over."
I started crying again. "But why would they take you away? That's mean!" I sobbed, wiping my tears away with the back of my hand.
"Oh, darling. They are taking us to a better place, where everyone lives in peace and are always happy. There isn't war, or hunger, or thirst. That's where this bird is going right now, escorted by the beautiful women and men. Don't be sad, alright?" I nodded, and my mother placed the bird at the base of a tree trunk, smoothing its ruffled feathers and dumping her basket into the sack. "I think that's enough." She said, picking up the sack gently and started to trot home. I followed behind, glancing back at the bird and thinking about angels, and the wonderful place they take you to.
Several years later I was wandering through the forest, a pack slung over my shoulder. I was coming back from visiting my dear friend Vesca. The woods were eerily silent that afternoon, and no matter what I did I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was like a stone in my stomach, and a dead weight over my shoulders. As I walked I hummed quietly to myself, concentrating on the path in front of me instead of the silence.
When I got home, the house was as silent as the woods. I dropped the pack by the door and didn't even wipe my hooves as I ran into the living room.
"Ma!" I called. "Mother, where are you?" The house remained silent. Wiping my sweaty palms on my roan coat, I walked slowly through the house, calling her name. I checked the kitchen, her room, even my room. She wasn't there. It wasn't until I started to walk out the front door did I see the note tacked to it.
Natalya-
Went to pick berries and mushrooms for desert tonight. Be back soon.
-Mother
I checked the clock hanging on the wall. It was past noon, and mother never stayed out late. Panicked, I shoved open the door and ran outside.
I galloped into the woods, taking the old, worn out path next to our house. I knew what had happened without knowing exactly. My mother had been sick for quite some time, and all the doctors said the same thing: "She'll get better, or she won't. Wait and see, and make sure she gets rest." Every time they told us, me and my father exchanged looks, wringing our hands nervously and nodding.
My mother was lying on the ground. When I saw her, she saw me as well, and smiled.
"Natalya." She said quietly, hoarsely. "Help me up." I bit my lip and helped her to her feet. We said nothing on the slow walk home, but neither of us needed words.
That night as I was heading for bed, my mother called me into her room. I walked in slowly. The room was lit by a dim lamp, and I stumbled over something once or twice. Nonetheless, I could see my mother's smiling face, as worn as the path was. I stood besides her bed, and she took my hand gently.
"Natalya, my sweet." She whispered, brushing my hand against her cheek. "I am old, and my heart doesn't want to keep me any more. Listen to the angels whisper tonight." The words struck a knife in my heart, but I blinked back tears and nodded.
"I will, Ma." I whispered. Then, leaning over, I kissed her cheek and turned off the lamp. She patted my hand in the darkness for a moment, before letting go and pulling the covers up to her shoulders. I didn't stumble on anything on the way out.
In the morning I walked slowly into her room again. I was in no hurry, I knew what was there. Sure enough, there was my mother, curled up under the blankets. She was cold when I touched her hand. My father came in shortly after, his face looking much older than it ever had. Without a word he wrapped his arms around me, and we both cried silently. The morning light was streaming in from the open window, and I could hear the leaves dancing in the wind.
"Sounds like the wind is coming to take her away." My father murmured softly, rubbing my shoulders.
"No, Pa. That's the angels whispering. They'll bring her home safely."
