EVELYN WILLIAMS

Mom

Evelyn Williams

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, come with me. Here.” I hold out my open hand to my little girl who looks up at me with wide brown eyes that display fear and worry. She hesitates before taking my hand as we walk up to the small brick building that holds the dull title in blue letters saying, “Miller Funeral Home.”

I twist the wedding ring on my hand around and around, thinking what it would be like if my husband were I hold her at arm’s length and look her over. She is wearing a pink shirt with a sparkly crown on the front with ‘Mommy’s princess’ written underneath and a purple tutu to match her pink and purple sparkle shoes that have fake gems spotted randomly around. She looks so much like me when I was little, with the same brown eyes, soft creamcolored skin, and brown, thick curly hair. myself slowing down even more. I’ve been to plenty of funerals, but I never prepared myself for this one. I clench

INVERTED Madeline Keating studio art

“Throughout my pieces, I try to make the subject the main focus and have it stand out, so the details of the subject can be seen throughout the piece. This piece is something that is up to the viewers’ perceptions of the subject.”

are set in straight, tidy rows with the main entrance forming a lane straight to the focus of the room: the casket holding my mother. I can see from twenty feet away the top of her face and her folded hands on her stomach. Daya starts to pull back, forcing me to stop and break my focus from the casket.

“Hey, sweet girl. Are you getting nervous?” She hugs my leg, her head burrowed into my thigh and her empty hand gripping the end of my plain maroon dress. I bend over and start to try to calm her by running my hand in a continuous circle on her back.

“It’s ok to be scared. I’m scared too.”

“You are?” she murmurs, audible only for me to hear.

“Yeah, I am, but the only way to get rid of fear is to face it.” At this, she peeks up at me. Then, with determination, she says, “Ok.”

I kiss her on the forehead then stand up again and face forward. We make our way to the casket, but as I draw closer, my own fear grows from the bottom of my stomach and sinks down to my feet, forcing me on Mom’s plain red dress, her favorite dress. She has on modest makeup – though she vowed never to wear makeup when she was alive – that doesn’t hide her wrinkles. Her faded, pink lips are in a smooth, straight line that hints towards neither a frown nor a smile. I examine her veiny hands, folded neatly in a way only of the dead, right hand over the left, gripping but not too tightly to show any signs of unnatural tenseness, placed intentionally on the upper part of the stomach to display comfort. hand to lie on top of hers. The room is increasingly hot, even with the ceiling fan whirring behind me. I keep my hand there, willing myself to accept that she is gone. Her hands are cold, not like she just came from the cooler, but more like she just came inside from a chilly day. She is dead and the casket is shaking slightly because of my quivering hand. I move my eyes to her face again, seeing the wrinkles by her closed eyes that show she smiled too often, and it reminds me of all the times we laughed and cried together.

I remember when I was little, maybe around the same age Daya is now, I was playing on the local playground. It wasn’t anything extraordinary, but to my eyes it was a kingdom that I ruled. I slid down the tube slide a hundred times and I begged my mom, who was sitting on the bench nearby, to come do underdogs with me. I would sit on the swing, and as my mom pushed me from behind to swing higher and higher, I would shriek with delight. When I gained enough momentum she would say, “Ok, are you ready?”

I would scream, “Yeah!” with a big smile taking up my whole face.

We would count, "1… 2… 3!" and then, in unison, yell, “Underdoogggg!” as my mom would push and would plop down on the wood chips in front of me, sitting cross-legged, watching me swing back and forth until I eventually slowed down to a calmer swinging rhythm.

One time I ran on up the stairs of the playset, turned a sharp corner, and bolted straight for the monkey feel myself slipping as gravity started to pull me down. I lost my sweaty grip on the only thing that would save me from the imaginary lava below. I was able to let out only a small squeak as I smacked onto the woodchips and the air went out of my lungs. I laid there in pure shock, staring up at the monkey bars that betrayed me, until my mom stooped over me, running her hands around my face and my body, asking if I was ok. She knelt down and pulled me into her, wrapping her arms around me tight, and at that moment I broke into tears. I wrapped my short arms around her neck as she stood and then continued to wrap my legs around her. She held me close and swayed back and forth for a long time until my tears had stopped spilling. When I was only hiccupping, she pulled me away from her chest so she could look at me. She stared into my face, looking all around like she was trying to remember every detail. Her eyes were concerned but warm. I looked into her eyes as she smiled slightly and kissed me on the forehead.

“Come on sweet girl, let’s go home.” At that, I fell back into her chest and she turned to head for home. She carried me all the way home. It was not until I was older that I started to really appreciate how much

mother now more than I ever have, but it’s too late to tell her that now. daughter. She looks clearly frightened, so I bend down and say, “Do you want to see Grandma? She looks very pretty.”

She doesn’t say anything, so I pick her up and place her on my right hip. She wraps her left arm around my neck and holds her right hand close to herself. She whispers, “Is Grandma sleeping?” on, “No, Grandma is on her way to Heaven.”

Daya perks up. “Heaven is where angels live!”

I smile. “That’s right, Daya, and Grandma is gonna be an angel now. She’s gonna watch over you.”

She smiles and tucks her head under mine, in the crook of my neck. I take one last glance at mom and then head for a chair in the front row. People begin to show up; some I know, most I don’t. All of them approach me and give their focus on Daya coloring in the chair beside me. made sure to milk every note until everyone was either tired or irritated.

Mr. Miller, the funeral home director, comes and gently places his right hand on my left shoulder. I turn my head and look up to him. He says, “Tonight went very well. I will see you tomorrow for the burial?”

I nod and turn my head back to the casket. Standing up, I grip Daya so she is still snuggled in my arms. I leave the funeral home ready for sleep before I must wake and face the pain of letting go. I drive home to the house I grew up in and the house in which I am now raising Daya. Pulling in my driveway, I see the playground just down the street, lit by a single lamppost that illuminated the bench and the edge of the wood chips. Maybe I’ll take Daya there tomorrow.

Raising my eyes to the rearview mirror, I see Daya still asleep. For a moment I stare back at her and see her not moving and I panic, thinking she’s not breathing. I whip my head around and place my hand on her leg. She’s warm. I shake her leg and speak softly, telling her to wake up. I release a breath when I see her eyes crack open. I let my grip on her leg go wheel and close my eyes, trying to blacken my mind and let everything fall to the back of my brain where it can be forgotten. Light tapping noises sound on my window. It's beginning to sprinkle.

I get out of the car, unbuckle Daya out of her car seat, and carry her into the house, up the stairs, and into her room. light. Sparkles from her art projects and presents I have given her dance in the form of a swaying ballet in the yellow light. Glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling above shine happiness. It seems to me a jumbled mess in the morning light, but I have come to fully appreciate its calming beauty in the night.

Daya has fallen back asleep and is curled into a ball on her bed. I unlace her pink and purple sparkly shoes, place them under her bed, and cover her with a blanket. I look at her already dreaming and I climb on to the bed with her and curl her into my arms.

I lie there with my little girl, growing calmer by the minute. Before I fall asleep, I wonder how long it will be before Daya has to say goodbye to me. Will she be middle-aged with her own child? Will she be a teenager? Will I be able to see her grow up to be a beautiful woman? Only one thing is for sure. For right now, in this moment, I can hold her in my arms and smell her sweet shampooed hair as she breathes easy, without a care in the world. She is all I need. Tomorrow, I will take her to the playground. I will watch my daughter swing high as my mother did me.

I whisper softly, “I love you Daya Veria, with all my heart.”

FRECKLED GIRL Lauren Hedlund studio art

“If I could make a new me, who would I be? But, I am me. And I am happy to be me, because God made me and gave me my best feature, freckles.”

AORTA Madissen Stevens polymer clay, wood, acrylic

“I have a fascination with gore and horror so I thoroughly enjoyed creating this work and plan to continue my newfound enjoyment of sculpting.”