The Woman Robed in White

My daughter was four years old, and the mud on her knees was spattered up to the hem of her battered dress. The flowers stitched there by an amateur’s hand -- my own -- grew worn and discoloured already, faded by the frequency she wore it. A gentle scolding greeted her at the door, floated into her ears and right back out. I watched my words coast to the floor behind her as she wrapped herself around my legs.

The Sun had lazed in the pale blue above since it had awoken, and by now had begun an impatient descent beyond the west field. Supper was slow to cook over the fire; our wood stock had long since drawn low. Her restlessness was apparent in the way her fingers tugged at my skirts.

“Oh, go on, Eleanor,” I begrudged, but my smile betrayed me. “I’ll call you back when supper’s ready.” An excited grin sprang to her lips as I shooed her back out the door, a bubbling laughter trailing her as she rejoined the verdancy of the garden.

When the heat of the day had dimmed and the rugged scent of stew, rich with the rations that had survived the past cycles of the moon, wafted through the house, my daughter reappeared, clumsy hands clasping a small item. She rushed to me, heavy arms outstretched as her sticky palms opened to reveal something shining and pale. A small stone dropped into my fingers while a thrilled grin beamed up at me. I pressed my closing fist to my breast and ushered her to sit. The gift would slip into my pocket, momentarily forgotten in the preparation of mealtime.

My daughter clambered up onto her wooden stool, chubby arms sliding on the tabletop as she wriggled to look out the window. The golden awe reflecting the sunset in her eyes ignited a raw passion I could never name. It was something animal, full of hunger and enamour and something gentler, gnashing its spired teeth behind my ribs.

My daughter was five, and her hair had grown thicker. Skilful braids wove from her scalp released her from the fresh autumn’s heat, but sweat still stuck to her forehead like a veil.

Supper had passed, a full meal to prepare for the next day’s labour, and my daughter sat atop her mattress with her legs criss-crossed, toying with a plucked wildflower that had begun to spill its sun-paled petals across her lap. Stiff fabric slid over my trembling fingers, a faint ivory engulfing dots of purple thread; flowers blossomed at the tip of my needle.

She slid from her bed, shuffled to me where the setting Sun cast a sleepy tangerine glow, and rested her head in the crook of my waist. Curious hands snuck to the unfinished blanket, then closed tiny fists around the cloth, bunching it with eagerness. She glanced up at me, pointed at the little blossoms, then smiled with a pride so pure I was dizzy with it.

I scooped her into my arms and we trundled to her bed, sharing the blanket in tender hands. As the mattress engulfed her, I draped the ivory over her slender body, planting the shaky purple flowers over her little ribs, right below her sunny grin.

My daughter was six, and her bones protruded slightly from her dusty skin. The sun enveloped her outside in the garden where she had laid herself in the arid grass, cradling her like she was a part of the earth it craved to nourish.

Rough twine scratched against my fingers as they climbed to the cloth over my collarbones, tracing where it wrapped around the little stone. The rough edges had grown smooth from endless caresses, a shallow divot housing the pad of my thumb as it idly grazed. It had begun as a self-soother, but had come to accompany every anxious thought.

Beyond the kitchen window I gazed from, Eleanor took rasping breaths, sealing her eyes against the Sun’s gentle rays. She cast her slim arms out, drinking the warmth like a little wildflower.

My daughter was seven, and I held her so tightly. The Sun had not reached her for many evenings. I had carried her slowly, without the exertion necessary for a girl her age; no fat accompanied the withering muscle clinging to her small frame. We sat outside on her wooden stool, her nestled in my lap. Half-open eyes gazed wordlessly at the sky twirling with wildflower pinks and tangy clementine, which lazed into humble violet and a brilliant gold just like when the Sun met her perfect honey eyes just right. A smile blessed her lips. I chose to ignore the energy I knew it stole from her.

Eleanor’s head drifted to the crook of my neck. My hand brushed her wispy hair so softly, so as not to chip her delicate face. The breeze left fond kisses on her pale cheeks as it whisked from the bushes and trees. The rustling behind us was out of place. I could not bear to mind.

The gracious white meandered from my peripheral, creating a polite berth before approaching. Eleanor did not stir as the woman hovered just beside her, a gleaming sickle like the one I used in the west field hanging loose in her hand.

I had grown familiar with my dread, the anticipation of pain becoming a shaky friend waking me each sunrise, but the sweet honey eyes of the visitor and the solemn, vaguely penitent line pressed between her lips invoked only surprise. She never looked away from my daughter, but she saw me all the same.

She stooped to brush her lips against my daughter’s icy temple.

I knew. I knew when the Sun crept so soberly into the sky, when the clouds whispered from beyond the fields and trees, when my daughter’s hand merely rested on her dress bustling with sun-dried floral patterns, crusted at the fraying edges in mud. Her little white blanket, dotted with an unfinished field of purple wildflowers, rested so still.

Breath cavorted in my throat, made breakneck laps from my lips to my lungs. Eleanor’s little head had nestled deeper into my collarbone, her cheek pressing into the small stone at my sternum, as if a sleepless night had finally ended in my embrace. For a fleeting moment, as I sensed the retreat of the empathetic woman robed in white, I could pretend that exhaustion was all that had claimed my daughter.

The dream slipped away on the breeze.