Sunday

It was Sunday again. She knew not because she could follow days, but because after feeding the chickens, Auntie insisted she take a bath.

It was a new thing, bathing herself alone; she was only a small girl.

Life was different now. Her Mama had gone away to someplace far, called Florida. Daddy said she would never be back.

Auntie had come to live in the little house because she was a widow- woman, alone. Sometimes she seemed strange with her black clothes and strict rules. She knew things like no one else did. People sent for her when someone was sick, or babies came, or people left this living.

She was mean at times, telling the little girl, “If you don’t behave, your Mama woman will come and take you away from here, and you will see your Daddy no more.” Tears and sobs would torment Hope because she loved her Daddy and Bubba more than all the things, including her one baby doll. She had night terrors of being snatched by the bad woman and taken away.

After she bathed in the tub of cold well water, Auntie pushed her dress, underwear, and shoes into her arms. She was careful in putting them on just right because Auntie was handy with a switch.

Soon Daddy, dressed in black, except his white shirt and the gray tie he wore, said it was time to begin the long walk to the church. It was dry now, so the road threw up little spurts of red dust as they strode along.

When they reached the bridge over the creek, Hope cried and wrapped herself, best she could around her Daddy’s legs; he could keep her safe from the harm of falling or being taken away.

Daddy reached down and effortlessly took her in his arms. Since the child could walk, she had been terribly afraid of falling through the cracks in the bridge. Now it was compounded by nightmares and his sister’s stories her mother might step out of the woods and steal her.

Auntie screeched, “You should put that child down and make her walk. You are spoiling her. She will turn out to be no good at all.”

Daddy looked at her, saying, “But she is only three, and she needs to learn love is a safe place, a safe person, she can trust when she is frightened. Hush up now; you are not the one supporting her weight. She is my precious Hope; she has lost a lot, it is okay that I carry her. Mind yourself, don’t be so cold-hearted.”

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

I rarely tell stories, this one is based on reality. The little girl is my Mom.

Priceless Heroes

Another shift,
Will additional hours be required?
From the beginning, nurses, doctors –
Going short of peaceful sleep.
Families wondering when
All members will again meet.
The coronavirus, cruel
As a murderer, random as
A violent hurricane.
Every day at least one
Slips away in isolation
From those loved and cherished.
Caregivers struggle with guilt,
Was enough done?
Why this senseless loss?
So many battles fought,
So little medicine can do,
Hoping always for a breakthrough.
Willing hearts on fire
With love for their fellow man
Sacrificing whatever they can
To beat a disease consuming
People throughout all lands.
Loving, like angels, sharing
All their being to help those
Who continue to need them.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

A poem requested by the owner/publisher of the Chapel Hill News & Views. It will appear in the February issue.

© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan

Gratitude…
I had an assignment today.
Writing helped clear my doubt away.
The day has run long, so I got things done.
Even when I cannot believe in myself, God believes in me.
The magic of music.

Prompt: Create something that illustrates your gratitude.

Thank you for visiting Haphazard Creative; I hope you found the furnishings to your liking. You may follow the site if you like or come back on a future date.

My hope for you is that you find enough love to carry you through the deeps and that many blessings keep you sweet.