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For July, I’d like to be enthralled by your creative endeavours inspired by the following quote:
‘There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.’ Washington Irving.
400 words or less, please.
THE VESTAL VIRGIN
Background History
(Some data courtesy of Wikipedia)
This is the story of Lucia and her parents who lived in Ancient Rome. Lucia was prepubescent and had been chosen to be enrolled in The Virgin Goddess Vespa’s College of Six Priestesses.
This is the story of a young girl chosen to help protect Rome’s Sacred Hearth and its flame.
The Priestesses vowed to serve Vesta for at least thirty years. The acolytes all studied and practiced her sacred rites in service of the Roman State and maintained their chastity throughout. In return they garnered special privileges.
BUT this is a personal story and one which embraces the sacredness of tears, as quoted by Washington Irving.
SO let us begin.
In Ancient Rome Lucia the beloved only child of Marcus and Aurelia, sat on the edge of her bed in the family villa. She was pondering her future seriously, not knowing whether to smile or cry. She had been given privilege and honour and should be proud and grateful.
However, a single tear belied her doubts about being “free from any legal ties and obligations to her birth family”. To this sensitive young girl thirty years seemed like a lifetime and she was to leave home the next morning.
Her parents, Marcus and Aurelia sat on the edge of their own bed in the next room, their arms tightly entwined. Their loving marriage had been greatly enriched by the birth of Lucia.
Tears were rolling down their cheeks.
Marcus stirred, sniffed away tears and released his wife. What was he thinking? He must be the strong partner; support and comfort Aurelia in her grief. He reached for a cloth and tenderly wiped away her tears.
He began to utter his thoughts, but Aurelia knew him so well and hushed him with a slender finger to his lips. She was wise and knew that he too must allow himself to grieve the loss of their precious daughter.
They looked into each other’s still glistening eyes: into their souls, but withdrew as they heard the door open and Lucia tiptoe towards them.
In the spontaneous family hug, the tears of Marcus, Aurelia and Lucia flowed copiously and mingled, releasing a myriad of unspoken emotions.
378 words including title
The Last Sense
Curse my tears, dissolving my bold exterior to expose the raw feeling beneath. How dare they come at a time when I needed to show courage? To offer a united support when Mum’s strength had finally crumbled?
And see how the foundations of mine gave way, leaving the sturdier ones to put on the brave faces; carry the weak link of their collective efforts. So selfish of me. So pathetic. I wasn’t worthy of the stroke to my arm, Mum lending the support I should have been giving.
Aching for solitude, I begged my leave once blessings were uttered, and took to the brook by the burial woodlands. There I sank to the mossy banks and finally let my emotions have their way.
Unlike the fervid river I cried, the waters below me were calm … and yet strong, their silvered dance sashaying smoothly over pebbles and past stubborn rocks. Mother nature’s collective tears. Not weak, but a powerful sedative; a life-force to creatures within and around. And hadn’t the leaf-lit canopy above me grown high from her weeping?
Below me, tinier life forces pricked her waters as they sought their own sustenance. Among the reeds, dancing dragonflies showed off the beauty she had bestowed on them.
So much life thriving from –– from tears.
And hers were not always so gentle. Mother Nature, when the mood took her, brought torrents and storms. All for a cause, I am sure …
… as were my tears. They were my rawest truth; my messengers, relaying what words failed to tell. And my loved ones, they had read them and not called me weak.
Because my tears spoke of love.
They told my mother how losing her felt.
Hers spoke as intensely, to all of us, collectively.
What need was there to say more?
It was as she left us I realized we had all likewise spoken.Hearing is the last sense you experience, they say. But I disagree.
The last, and lasting, sense, is love.
Told through tears when they govern over words.
So my tears are a strength, and a blessing.
Let them say what they will.356 words
<p style=”text-align: right;”>Sorry Sea, I’ve been racking my brain (while fighting off Ken Dodd and attempting to pack for some days in the Hebrides) but am totally bereft of words about tears.</p>
As you know, Sandra, this prompt came about following the loss of one of our cardiologists and my subsequent inability to write anything meaningful in his Book of Condolences. Faced with Imposter Syndrome because I didn’t know him as well as some of the other nurses, I simply invalidated my feelings and wrote a stiff little sentence that had nothing to do with anything I wanted to say. To my shame, I summed him up as ‘unforgettable’.
The man was wise, funny and extremely knowledgeable. He smiled often, pranked the nurses, and turned up to overnight emergencies in tartan pyjamas (or so I am led to believe!) He was legendary for his story-telling abilities but, more than that, for his story-listening abilities. He would pull up a chair at a bedside and make his patients feel heard. They adored him. His colleagues in Cardiology and associated departments would have given anything to have been able to save him.
For me, this prompt is more about the honesty behind the tears. It’s about love, understanding, frailty, disappointment, joy, gratitude, beauty, anger, and the unfairness of life. If you still have the time (and the inclination 😊), before your break away, Sandra, write me that.
Okay Sea, that ‘honesty snagged my conscience:
The last time I cried was as I attempted to sleep, having earlier been admitted to hospital after my husband Steve correctly diagnosed the oddness of my being unable to control my fingers, while doing the Saturday General Knowledge as potentially a stroke. Quoting ‘FAST’, he did everything right and within 60 minutes I was being reassured, ‘We’ve stopped the bleeding in your brain.’(I did wonder how they could tell) What they couldn’t stop was the ever-present image of Steve’s face as the ambulance left him on the footpath outside our house, the sharp pain of separation. When the ward lights finally went out (and silence failed to fall I could only picture him lying in our bed on his own, and couldn’t stop the tears then.
A more honest – and undoubtedly shaming – confession is that I never cried a single tear when my mother died.
Earlier in the day, at home in her own bed, she repeatedly begged, ”Just let me go, I’ve had enough.”
Hard to wish otherwise for her. My Dad and her sister needed greater care. As did her grandchildren when I reached home with the news.
Teabreak tells it straight
I have been known to buff the truth a little, just to get a sparkle when a story is recounted. And if that helps somebody see the finer details a little more clearly, then who am I to deny them the opportunity? However, just as experts say we should resist the call of Mr. Sheen and microfibre when rare treasures are at hand, so there are some tales that deserve to stand as nature intended. There are also those that are left untouched because they are private and I seldom feel the urge to tell them.
My mother, I believe, was in the entertainment trade. Specifically, she danced, as it were, for the benefit of gentlemen. My father was a restaurateur. I never knew either of them. The person I called Mum, was a middle-aged Slovakian woman name of Brina. She was from Radava which was in Yugoslavia when she lived there. She fostered me for a few years—well, her and her husband, Larry. But he was a miserable geezer old enough to be her dad and the less said about him the better.
When I think of her, I remember her kindness and how she always saw the good in me.
‘Matty, you are good boy,’ she would say, even though I was a little swine like all my mates. Oh, and that was before I was Teabreak. But yeah, I was always her good boy. She saved and went without, just for me. Eventually Larry turfed me out and I never thought to go back and visit Brina again.
I bumped into a social worker I knew years later, and she told me to get down to Whitechapel ASAP because Brina was in the Royal London and not expected to last. I did, full of trepidation, but I was too late. She was asleep and she never woke up. If I’m honest I was glad. I was ashamed to have neglected her, and it saved me from having to say anything.
After, I went and sat in Weavers Fields where I knocked about as a kid. And I cried. The more my tears fell, the worse I felt about not saying goodbye to Brina. And I remembered that I would always be her good boy, whatever I did. And I realised that I loved her, and that’s what my tears meant. And—that’s it, really.
398 excluding title
A great prompt, Sea – I just haven’t had time to write a story this month. Very enjoyable entries from everyone.
I’m sorry to hear about the cardiologist.
Foolishly, I thought I’d have time on my nightshift to absorb the stories and choose a winner. Ha! The salt mine overlords had other ideas.
I promise it’ll be done today…
Thank you for indulging my ‘tearful’ requirement and apologies again for being so late with the results.
@Jill – Good to see you back, and thank you for diving back into the monthly comp with your tale of Lucia. I confess to knowing nothing about Vestal Virgins, but your entry has definitely piqued my curiosity and I’m sure there’s a much larger tale here waiting to be told.There was a real mix of emotions here – I imagine loss, pride, fear, inevitability, and hope (to name a few). I love it when the writing is strong enough for me to watch a scene play out in my head and that last scene of yours was particularly poignant.
@Janette – Your story carries heart (as always), enriched by beautiful description. And ‘they were my rawest truth’ hooked me and refused to let go. Strength in vulnerability.@Sandra – I’m sorry if I coerced you into this, but I couldn’t let you swan off on some trip without trying to tease something out of you. And then this. Sometimes the least (and simplest) words paint the most profound picture.
@Ath – You brought out the big guns. Voice and Teabreak. I loved it. Enough said.
You are all treasures and I struggled to find one story that shone brighter than any other. In the end, I chose the image of Steve’s face as the ambulance drove off. Over to you, Sandra.
Have to say I am astonished to be chosen, Sea – and grateful, despite feeling that I fell far short of ‘enthralling’ in comparison to those far more apt which were posted, and made impressive reading. Also, following what has been something of a let-down day, this was a welcome cheering, so thank you for that. I’ll aim to post August’s competition by midday tomorrow.
Thank you, Sea, for the challenge and for the kind words. Congratulations, Sandra, your words clearly came from the heart and made you a worthy winner.
Ok ~ think I have posted my congratulations and comments and thanks on Seagreen’s wall. Silly me! However, all heartfelt, so thanks for prompt and excellent entries from fellow Denizens…
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