The Brush
He leaves our bedroom door ajar so he can hear me. Our daughter’s room is just across the hall and I can see him there, kneeling in her doorway. Drawers open and close and I smile as the sounds of morning mix with the panic in a six-year-old voice:
“But mommy always lets me wear the blue one daddy, we have to find it!”
I find the button clipped to my gown and push it, cheating the first waves of pain as they roll in like an angry tide and threaten what remains of my island. When the first dune was swept from my shores, I practically begged my doctor for an honest forecast-one I could live with, or otherwise. When he hesitated, I offered him an out:
“If this were a storm attacking me” I asked, “ would it be a hurricane, a tornado, or a typhoon?”
He glanced at my charts before he spoke.
“I’m sorry Angie” he said, “this one is a tsunami.”
His patience is amazing. She’s teaching him how to be a mommy, and I can hear them, even now, his quiet voice explaining the imminent arrival of the school bus while she counters with a chorus of “I ams” and “all rights”, followed by the morning lesson:
“Mommy says we have to make the bed before school else bugs will get in it!”
My day nurse has wings on her back, but she cannot fill the hours with the joy that I feel with my family.They are my world and I loathe this storm’s demands upon them-detest its insistence that they face the pain of rebuilding their lives with no tiny buttons clipped to their gowns. The door to my room swings open just as the next wave breaks and I forego the button for a much needed dose of my daughter. Her long red hair is a tangled mass of curls and she shrieks with laughter as my husband scoops her from behind and sets her gently on the bed.
“ I think we’re gonna need a super-duper dose of mommy magic from the brush this morning” he says, winking as he hands me my grandmother’s brush and slides behind me. His hand is wrapped around mine as we guide the brush through our daughter’s hair. She’s singing something about “oranges-poranges” while he rubs the small of my back with his free hand. When her bus arrives, she sings louder and I turn to him:
“ Shhh” he whispers, “ I’ll drive her”.
Dear Medium Family,
Thanks for being here, and for all of your generous support and encouragement. This was my first attempt at flash fiction, and I thought I’d use it as an opportunity to practice my hand at writing from the pov of a speaker outside of my normal purview — in this instance, a woman dying of cancer. Tapping into the emotional aspect of this piece was difficult, but it is my belief that when we mine our hearts, we can find the words. I hope I did that here.
Thanks for reading,
J Oliver
