The Lawn

Guest Post by George Davis

The letter arrives in the mail and she opens it. She reads it, and remembers that sad day she received the out of state telephone call that her daughter was dead.

“Childbirth,” she screamed at her son-in-law. “How? She is in perfect health.”

“Not for giving birth,” her son-in-law said.

“Well, why did she get pregnant?”

“It was a fifty-fifty risk the doctors told her and she made the choice to have a baby.”

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

“She didn’t want you to worry.”

“Bullshit. Worry. Hell. I would have convinced her to adopt.”

“She wanted her own child by birth.”

“Liar. That baby is what you wanted, damn-it.” 

Before that sad day, she and her daughter were mother and daughter until she became six years old and that changed to them being companions that developed into they being like best friends.  

“You’re not dressed for the memorial,” her husband said.

“I’m not going,” she told him.

“It’s for our daughter, our only child.”

“He cremated our daughter without asking us then tossed her into the damn wind.”

“He probably thought he was doing the right thing.”

“He didn’t do the right thing,” she shouted.

“Honey, please get dress.”

She shrieked. “I’m not getting dress for someplace I don’t want to be.”    

Later in the day she answered the telephone. “He is bringing our grandchild to the house for you to see her before he leaves for home,” her husband said.

“I don’t want to see that baby.” 

“She is our only grandchild.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m bringing them to the house,” her husband said in a stern voice.

“You listless man, you do and tomorrow, I will divorce you,” she screamed.

Her husband stayed silent for a moment. “Okay. I’ll tell him something.”

“You do just that, tell him to go to hell, don’t you dare bring them into my house.”                                                             ŸŸŸ

The letter reads that after knowing her stepmother for sixteen years, she would like to know what her birth mother was like, since all she knows of her is how pretty she looked from the descriptions by her father. 

She replies to her grandchild all you need to know of my daughter is how pretty she looked on the day of her death during your birth both caused by your father. All else about my daughter is my memories, so please do not contact me no more.

Her husband witnesses her deed without her knowledge. Without talking to his wife about it, he makes a copy of the photo album of his daughter’s life. He mails it to his grandchild. He points out to her in a note that she should never contact them again.  

Almost all the time of the days, she sits on the porch looking over the lawn, reminiscing of her daughter’s birthday parties, sweet sixteen party, graduation parties, a party for her departure to college and where her wedding would have happen. Occasionally, her husband does the same with her for many years, until he passes away. Years later, she lies on a hospital bed with just her memories because her future is rapidly closing to an end.

One day an unfamiliar nurse attends to her. The next evening, after dinner, the unfamiliar nurse returns and setup the television to show a video. She sees herself with her daughter, a baby, arriving on the lawn of her home. She sees events of her daughter’s life until that day of her daughter’s going away to college party. She stares at the nurse. She smiles at her granddaughter who smiles at her with tears. END  

George A. Davis born in Philadelphia PA (presently resides in Tampa FL): studied creative writing at The Community College of Philadelphia, retired Federal government employee, and presently write stories.


Posted on October 4, 2012, in Short Stories. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: