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31_days2006-04-13 10:58 pm
swollenfoot.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-04-13 10:58 pm
[April 13] [A Wrinkle In Time] Under the kitchen light (Side A)
Title: Under the kitchen light (Side A)
Day / Theme: April 13 / When will you love you as much as I love you?
Series: A Wrinkle In Time (Madeleine L’Engle)
Character: Dr. Murry
Rating: G
Word Count: 244
Day / Theme: April 13 / When will you love you as much as I love you?
Series: A Wrinkle In Time (Madeleine L’Engle)
Character: Dr. Murry
Rating: G
Word Count: 244
16:44 041206
Under the kitchen’s lonely incandescence, her daughter’s bruise looked horribly black, a stain that managed to seep up to the surface of her skin from within, a stain that was ultimately a symptom of deep-seated unhappiness.
Blaming herself was irrational. Being that she was a highly intelligent but well-balanced woman, she was wise enough to accept the irrational. Her daughter, however, had yet to understand that the irrational were of importance, even outside the realm of mathematics. So she allowed herself to be berated by her conscience for little things dictated by nature, little things brought about by fate (despite the professed disbelief of coincidence she shared with her husband), little things she could do little to remedy. In some strange way, it expiated her of her guilt, made her feel somewhat punished.
It was painful and lonely to watch one’s child suffer through the motions of adolescence. To wish for it to be over and done with, however, even to wish for the said child to escape those little inexplicable aches that came daily, was to blaspheme the gift of being part of the metamorphosis.
(And then afterwards? In the afterwards, mother wouldn’t be so necessary, wouldn’t have to be so there. Did that scare her? Did she dread that afterwards after all?)
Suddenly, she found that she wanted to touch her eldest child, to savor the bittersweet, oh-so-precious connection while it was still an arm’s breadth away.
She called Meg to her.
~16:59
Under the kitchen’s lonely incandescence, her daughter’s bruise looked horribly black, a stain that managed to seep up to the surface of her skin from within, a stain that was ultimately a symptom of deep-seated unhappiness.
Blaming herself was irrational. Being that she was a highly intelligent but well-balanced woman, she was wise enough to accept the irrational. Her daughter, however, had yet to understand that the irrational were of importance, even outside the realm of mathematics. So she allowed herself to be berated by her conscience for little things dictated by nature, little things brought about by fate (despite the professed disbelief of coincidence she shared with her husband), little things she could do little to remedy. In some strange way, it expiated her of her guilt, made her feel somewhat punished.
It was painful and lonely to watch one’s child suffer through the motions of adolescence. To wish for it to be over and done with, however, even to wish for the said child to escape those little inexplicable aches that came daily, was to blaspheme the gift of being part of the metamorphosis.
(And then afterwards? In the afterwards, mother wouldn’t be so necessary, wouldn’t have to be so there. Did that scare her? Did she dread that afterwards after all?)
Suddenly, she found that she wanted to touch her eldest child, to savor the bittersweet, oh-so-precious connection while it was still an arm’s breadth away.
She called Meg to her.
~16:59