"Write about how a person's perspective on an event from their childhood shifted in their adulthood." Prompt given by Reedsy at https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/
Maisy, Tilly, and I stood beside our mother in our black dresses, quiet and uncertain of what to do with our hands. Maisy kept grabbing Tilly’s, which fussed with the hem of her dress over and over, tugging it and toying with the lace, prepared to tear it. Our mother didn’t notice. She was too busy staring at the grave like she was willing it to disappear.
* Tilly’s daughter fidgets on the edge of the black folding chair, swinging her dangling legs and fingering the hem of her black dress, widening a hole lurking in the lace. “Bailey,” I whisper, reaching for her hands. “Sit still.” She looks up at me, blue eyes enormous in her small face, and her eyebrows dent into a scowl. “I don’t want to,” she says. “I want to go play.” She rips one hand free from my grasp and points into the distance, at a flock of birds scattered amongst the headstones. “Mommy let me play.” * The hole in the ground was cavernous. I peered over the edge into the abyss, staring at the roses placed on the glossy coffin and imagined I fell in, was swallowed whole by the earth, and all my screams were crushed by the soil suffocating me. I imagined my father screaming, and none of us hearing him. Maisy dragged me away while tears streaked down my cheeks, the tracks like scars on my face. * Bailey’s eyes are everywhere but the grave. She watches the birds with rapt attention, even as I crouch in front of her and hold her rosy cheeks in my gloved palms. “Bailey, honey, look at me.” She doesn’t. “Honey, it’s time to say goodbye.” She frowns a little but doesn’t move her eyes from the crows hopping along the frosty ground. “Goodbye?” she questions. I fight my welling tears and heave a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes, goodbye. This is the last time you’re going to see Mommy, so you need to say goodbye to her.” “Mommy’s coming back.” “No, sweetie, she’s not. She’s gone and she can’t— she can’t come back.” * Tilly’s eyes were huge, robin’s eggs set deep in her porcelain skin. “Tilly, what are you doing?” Maisy asked in her bossy voice. I hated that voice. She was only a year and a half older than me, was only twelve, but she acted like our mom. Tilly, five, didn’t move from her place on the concrete bench, swinging her dangling legs. “Looking for Daddy,” she responded, and Maisy and I shared a glance before following Tilly’s eyes to the flock of crows above our heads, circling the cemetery. * Bailey looks at her mother’s serene face with a curious expression. I know why. I know she doesn’t understand death, is too young to comprehend the loss of life. In her mind, her mom is simply sleeping, and will wake up soon to make her eggs and waffles, and maybe play hide-and-go-seek. She doesn’t know her mother will never open her eyes again. That she is forever gone from this world. Bailey looks up at me with that expression still on her face, eyes dancing question marks. “We say goodbye now?” I squeeze her tiny hand, anchoring her to me. “Yes,” I whisper. “We say goodbye now.” * Maisy crouched in front of Tilly, the stern expression she stole from Dad painted on her face. “Daddy isn’t out there, Tilly. We said goodbye to him. Remember? We put his body in the ground. Daddy is gone.” Tilly cocked her head and stared at Maisy with all the intensity of a stubborn six-year-old. “Daddy isn’t gone.” “Yes, he is, Til,” Maisy said softly. “He died. You remember how sick he was? He didn’t get better.” “I know,” Tilly said impatiently. “But he’s not gone.” “Then where is he?” I asked. She points, wordlessly, at the crows. * “Your mommy wouldn’t have left you if she had any other choice. You know that, right?” I whisper the words through her hair, rocking her back and forth on my lap. Her tiny hands tap out a random rhythm on mine. She nods. “Mommy loves me.” I hold her tighter, battling the tightness in my chest. “Yes, she does. Very much.” “When will Mommy come see me?” I swallow thickly. Tears burn in my eyes. “She can’t come see you, baby.” “Why not?” “She—she’s not somewhere she can reach us anymore.” “Where is she?” My breathing is ragged and I set Bailey down on the floor, pat her back. “Why don’t you go see Aunt Maisy and see if she’ll braid your hair?” I say through a watery smile. Bailey smiles beatifically and runs off, leaving me alone at a table filled with pictures of Tilly. * “He’s a bird,” she insisted. “He told me he loves me!” “How did he tell you that, Tilly?” Maisy asked patiently. “Birds can’t talk.” “Duh,” she said. “Birds can’t talk. He cawed. Like this.” She mimicked the sound a crow makes, but it sounded strange in her tiny throat, and I looked down at the ground, rubbing my toe into the dirt. “People can’t become birds,” Maisy said. “They do when they die,” Tilly retorted. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that if he was a bird, he was a phoenix that would never resurrect. He was only ashes. * Maisy finds me minutes later, smiling weakly. “Hey,” she says. “Hey.” She collapses into the chair beside me, arms spread along the back, and she tilts her head to stare at the ceiling. “God, this is weird, isn’t it?” I glance sidelong at her. “How?” “Well, she shouldn’t have been the first, you know? It doesn’t seem real. She should still be here. She was the youngest. She wasn’t supposed to go first.” I nod absently. “How’s Bailey?” Maisy sits forward, smooths out her dress before settling her hands primly in her lap. “She’s okay. I don’t think she understands.” I say nothing. “Do you remember when Dad died? How convinced Tilly was that he came back as a bird?” She chuckles. “She taught Bailey that everyone comes back as a bird.” “What?” I ask sharply, snapping to look at her. “She did that?” Maisy draws back, startled by my intensity, and says, “Yes, she thought it was important that Bailey have a tangible way to believe in something after death. I don’t think she ever thought it would be because she died, but…” She trails off into a sigh. “Maybe she was prepared for this, just in case. After watching Dad die, maybe she didn’t want Bailey to try and figure it out on her own if Tilly ever died.” “But it’s not true,” I cry. “She’s gone! She’s gone and she’s never coming back!” * “He’s dead, Tilly,” I finally snapped. “Do you know what that means? It means he’s gone and he’s never coming back. Not as him, not as a worm, not as a cat, and definitely not as a bird. He’s dead. Dead.” Tilly stared at me over Maisy’s shoulder, and Maisy turned to face me with a horror-struck look on her face, even as tears spilled over her cheeks. “No, he’s not,” she said stubbornly, but her lower lip began to quiver. “Yes, he is.” “No, he’s not!” she screamed, and she jumped from the bench and ran, sobbing, back to the church. Maisy only looked at me. “Why would you take that from her?” she whispered, and she slowly turned and trudged after Tilly. I was left alone, listening to the harsh cries of the crows, waiting for my father’s voice and never hearing it. * “It comforts her,” Maisy says defensively. “If that’s how she copes with her mom dying, why would I take that from her?” I stare at her, then stand stiffly, and exit the reception hall, back into the bitter cold of the winter outside. I’m standing in front of her grave when Bailey finds me. “Auntie Angie?” she asks softly. “Are you okay?” I hastily wipe at the tears freezing on my cheeks and force a smile. “Yes, Bailey. I’m okay. I’m just a little sad.” “Because of Mommy?” I hesitate, staring at her headstone. Bailey hovers beside me, looking at it too. Matilda Grace Ackerman Beloved Mother Wife Sister 1994-2020 “Yes,” I finally say. “Because of your mommy.” Bailey doesn’t say anything for a long, long time. Eventually she reaches for my hand, holds it tightly and whispers, “I miss her.” Grief crashes through me, chills me far more than the cold wind ever could, and I step around to stand in front of Bailey and I crouch down in front of her, and wipe away her tears, falling silently. “You know what, Bailey? The birds have been talking to me.” I glance around us, lean in close, as if I’m telling her a secret. Her eyes are saucers. “They told me they’re waiting for you.” I smile at her and she looks at the birds in wonder, then back at me, asking permission. I nod and she sprints off towards the crows. They take off, black feathers stark against the white sky, and their cries echo around the cemetery. And I swear I could hear my sister’s voice.