The old ash tree

November. The fog has smothering fingers and my hair is sticky with rain.
I choke while opening the urn to spread her ashes… recalling:

“Can you see the dryad?”, my mother’s hand traced the curve of the soft bough. “We have to come back here next time you visit.”

I had ignored it then, before she declined deeper in dementia, before she ceased to speak, before she failed to wish.

Now I see the face of a young woman smiling from the timber. She opens her arms to receive my mother who sighs as she used to do:

“Thank you”.

OK, I went with the first impression of seeing a living thing in the tree, not to original i guess, but sometimes you just have to go with your first idea.

Rochelle on the other hand always come up with a new angle, and select the picture for Friday Fictioneers. The weekly challenge in the art of using hundred words as well as you can.



November 7, 2018

59 responses to “The old ash tree

  1. This is beautiful and filled with such Hope. Seeing his/her mother again and knowing she’s not gone, not really, despite that her physical form succumbed to dementia.

  2. Wow. Talk about wood-working. That is incredible.

    I love this poem so much. It touches me deeply.

    We just put my mom in the nursing home this week after another stroke. I keep hearing her younger voice in my head, remembering the silly things she used to say, and how she always made life playful regardless of circumstances. She made me who I am — strong and goofy. Colorful and feisty.

  3. It’s interesting that we both went with a mother’s death, although very different directions after that. I love this image of the mother reborn. Great job.
    -David

  4. A touching story. Mother’s ashes are going back to a place she liked and where she is welcome.

  5. I think dementia is one of the saddest, most dehumanizing things that happens to a person. I appreciated the love toward this mother, even though she was no longer herself.

  6. Your first take on the prompt is perfect. The wording is delicate and tender. As your mother has dementia, I know this story springs from a deep place. My father has illness plus dementia and I miss his voice from “before (he) ceased to speak, before (he) failed to wish.” I’m wiping my eyes now. Here’s to hope!

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