Marsh Mellow

April 24, 2018

Another story from writing club.  

Time limit: 25-30 minutes, well honestly, I am not sure because this prompt took every available second!  

Prompt: Everyone chose a word on the spot and then wrote them down. Then we read them off. The goal: make a story with the chosen words.  (I chose sycamore.)

1.    Raccoon

2.    Sycamore

3.    Cow

4.    Marshmallow

Marsh Mellows

Beneath the tree Samuel sat for hours. It had become his quiet space, a place for reckoning and peace.  Why Pa had chosen this sycamore of he never knew?  Pa had been gone for many years now, gone soon after Samuel was half as tall and toddling around down by the brook at the bottom of the hill.  

He fell in up to his neck the day the tree was planted.  Pa had left his work and chased after Samuel’s squeals as he floated.  Samuel laughed as he remembered he’d been half way to the marsh before Pa pulled him out.  Pa hugged him and tanned his hide good.  Big firm hands like bear paws could put you back on your feet or make you wish you’d minded Pa’s words.  Marsh mellows, Pa had laughed, it ain’t good to stay angry.  The marsh mellows everything.  The pair listened to the crickets and singing frogs.

The wind whispered through the leaves, thoughts and memories of how he and Molly picnicked there in the shade. The trunk wasn’t near as thick then, but the tree made a nice shadow in the afternoon sun.  Molly met him many a time to read to him.  She was so sure she could learn him some words, but words had never been his friend like Molly.  She’d left him though once she’d grown.  Gone off to school in the big city and never returned to sit beneath the tree with him. 

Meanwhile Samuel had grown, fenced one thousand acres of land, watched over his father’s cattle.  Old Billy had joined him then.  The old retriever was a mean beast when it was time for milking. He’d round up the herd and have them at the barn for milking lickty-split.  Never was such a good dog.  Too bad he’d met up with that rabid raccoon.  Could have saved him if he’d had shots like they’ve got now days. Samuel buried his hound beneath the sycamore.  

Through the years the roots probably cradled the Old Billy’s grave.  Samuel wasn’t sure of the exact spot.  That didn’t matter now.  The grass grew long in the field.  Samuel’s days of herding cattle were all but memories.  

Beth came into his life late and blew out like a brief candle flame.  She shared the shade of the tree and Samuel’s home.  No living children followed.  Beth just couldn’t carry them and all three babes laid to rest the day they were born.  As husband and wife, Samuel and Beth, together they sought the peace of the fields. To sit and just be, in grief of empty arms and yet full.

She was buried just off the south of the tree with a simple stone.  As one hand rest upon the soil, Sam marveled at the stillness of the earth. Everything moved above it.

Samuel had never wanted to climb the tree, to reach higher, to see more.  As his chest rose and fell tighter and tighter.  He knew deep within.  He didn’t have to climb the tree to see Jesus.  He’d have a good view right here.