Freedom is a 7 letter word

A spring breeze drifts through a field of cotton, the white buds sway gently as the air tugs at them with invisible strings. The morning sunlight flickers through the thin twigs of a peach tree, small shoots bursting out from the branches like an explosion of green. Golden pansies and rose coloured chrysanthemums reach for the sky, their petals a haven for buzzing bees and iridescent blue butterflies. Everything is peaceful and serene, well almost everything.

Bare feet scurry cautiously along a narrow dirt path, carefully avoiding deep ruts and stray stones. The dirty hem of a calico dress snags on the unforgiving thorns of a blackberry bush. A hand slinks out, snatching a handful of blackberries before darting away.

“Rylla!” a feminine voice carries on the breeze from the back verandah of a sturdy farm house nestled in the shade of a giant oak.

The girl smiles to herself, a cheek full of berries and scampers faster, enjoying the temporary bliss of pretend ignorance. If Mama doesn’t know she was heard, then she is safe. A thrill of rebellion washes over her as the house sinks from view. She’s longed to do this for the longest time, but the fear of her parents wrath and of what she might encounter has kept her at bay, until now.

The voice calls her name again, only this time fainter with a hint of urgency and irritation. But it is still ignored. The girl dreams of freedom, a place of refuge from the four firm walls of her daily life.  Somewhere only she knows of, like a temporary escape from reality.

Life isn’t bad in these parts, the sweet country air sweeping through the fields like the brush of skirts against bare ankles. But each day is the same, a routine that keeps everything in order. She’d rise with the sun, sent to the barn to feed the animals and collect the eggs. By the time she returns it is breakfast, soggy porridge and a glass of fresh milk, on Sundays they have omelettes. She longs for the freedom of omelettes every day, with sun-dried tomatoes and bacon perhaps. Papa would then take to the fields on his gelding, riding through the deep stretches of fluffy cotton, the buds so soft she dreams of sleeping on a pile of them. She misses Papa when he is gone, she feels trapped, surrounded by the piercing squeals of her younger siblings and the stern reprimand of her mother. She yearns to feel the wind in her hair as she runs barefoot through the fields, to clamber carelessly up the tallest tree and nestle in the crook of a branch with a book in her lap.

Mama says she should be a lady, that she should learn to cook, clean and care for children, in preparation for when she is a housewife. She finds it foolish, it’s the last thing a twelve-year-old wants to learn. She’s watched as her older brother Dustin grew up tall and strong like Papa, a dimple in his left cheek and that unruly strand of hair that always falls across his brow. She longs to slip into a pair of Dustin’s slacks, tuck her wild chestnut hair into a cap, dirty her face with soot and run away with a steam train. To another life, anywhere but here.

A sparrow calls to her as she crosses a narrow stream, the cool water slipping through her toes like a colourless snake. Sweet moss grows freely on the bank, tiny white flowers blossom in the undergrowth. A wild rabbit hops across her path, pausing to blink at her with wide brown eyes, and then with a twitch of its nose, it’s gone.

The sun rises higher in the sky and the warmth of the rays burn into her skin. She reaches a tree. It stands tall and proud, long branches reach outwards, like the arms of loved ones beckoning you close. She smiles at the sight, her heart full. There is no one around but herself, the chirp of unseen birds and the tranquil beauty of mother nature. The massive tree is alone, sitting central on the crest of a hill, soft green grass growing freely around its thick roots. She walks to it, feeling dwarfed by its grand stature.

She begins to climb, grasping at branches and swinging herself higher. She moves without caution, as if following her heart, higher and higher. She pauses and tucks an arm around the wide girth of the trunk, her icy blue gaze caressing the glowing fields, adorned with tufts of white and a lush assortment of greens.

She can see her home from up here. Damp clothes sway lightly as they dry in the heat of the midday sun, Mama is bent over the vegetable patch, plucking ripe tomatoes from their stems and tucking them carefully into a basket at her hip. Every now and then she straightens and shades her eyes with a hand, scanning the fields for any sign of her absent daughter.

The girl smiles again, a hint of amusement tickling her lips. She has succeeded, although she knows her brush with freedom is nothing more than brief. She lowers herself onto a branch, her back presses against the trunk.

Her fingertips graze across the coarse bark, “I missed you.” She whispers to the tree, it’s strength embraces her as she breathes in its deep woody scent. A gentle breeze shifts through the leaves, drifting like a tranquil carpet of green above her, the soft rustle like a lullaby humming in harmony with the cheerful warble of the nearby stream.

Her mind wanders, sifting through fleeting moments and joyful memories.

The sky is alive with soaring hawks and foamy white clouds, ambling along at some leisurely pace. She wishes she was up there with them, gliding free amongst the wide blue nothingness.

She knows she will soon have to clamber down from her perch in the sky, to help Mama pull the clothes from the line and prod at fresh vegetables boiling in a pot of soup.

The glowing sun rises higher in the sky, the intensity of its heat bearing down on her. As if in cue with the time, her stomach grumbles loudly, competing with the call of wild birds nesting in the trees around her.

She scampers from the tree, wishing she had thought to bring an apple or two, as she makes her way back to the familiar farm house nestled in the shade of the big oak tree.

Her steps slow with hesitancy as she nears the house, her mother spots her, a mixed expression of relief and ire crossing her features. “Rylla!” the woman exclaims, her tone biting through the quiet of the day like nails on a chalkboard.

The girl winces, twisting her fingers around the thin calico of her dress, a flutter of nerves zip around her belly. She wishes she was back in the tree, overlooking the pleasant view of rolling fields and the white dotting of grazing sheep.

“Where on earth have you been?” Mama steps from the vegetable patch, setting the tomato and asparagus filled basket at her feet and placing two fists on her hips. Her forehead creases with frown lines, her mouth turning down at the corners.

The girl blinks in response, her pale blue eyes darting around uneasily, barely skimming over her mother before settling on a grey spider spinning an intricate web in the entrance to the barn.  

“Just talk to me, please.”

She glances over hesitantly, Mama looks worried. “About what, Mama?” She asks, her voice hushed.

Sadness twitches across Mama’s face, “Anything Rylla.” she studies the young girl before her, “You barely talk to me at all.”

“Sorry, Mama.”

Tension and silence lingers in the air, the girl hardly breathes as she stands motionless, her bare toes digging into the dry dirt.

Mama stares for a moment longer, then sighs and picks up the basket. She turns and walks into the house without a backward glance, leaving her daughter staring at her retreating back with a pang of guilt.

*

“Do you ever just want to run away?”

The sky is lit by a tangled blur of vivid hues, deep oranges, pinks and purples. Birds soar freely amidst the glowing clouds, like an artwork on a canvas of blue. The glistening moon shines from high above them, the thin sliver bright against the rapidly darkening sky.  

“What do you mean?”

Dustin peers at her, his legs sprawl out in front of him, while she tucks hers to her chest. She doesn’t look his way, her blue eyes scanning the silhouetted hills and neat lines of the fields Papa tends for so carefully.

“Just that.” She sighs.

She meets his eye briefly, “Don’t you ever feel trapped here? Like there’s no way to escape how mundane our lives are?” she tugs a small daisy from its roots, plucking the soft white petals from the flower and tossing them aside. “I want to explore, run free and to find happiness. Don’t you want that?”

“I like my life, Rylla.” Dustin replies, shifting slightly as they perch on the crest of a hill overlooking their farm land. He runs a hand through his hair, that one strand falling over his eye again. “There is comfort in the way we live, the routine, safety and no fear of the unexpected.”

“Oh, then perhaps it’s just me.”

“Perhaps.”

A taut silence falls across the pair, broken only by the soft whisper of the breeze through the trees and the lyrical call of the songbirds as night falls. The sun sinks lower beyond the horizon, dragging away majority of the day’s warmth with it. The girl shifts on her perch, pulling the thin layers of her shawl tighter around her shoulders in a desperate attempt to hold in the last of the sun’s warmth.

Dustin tucks an arm around her, drawing her against his larger frame, the warmth of his body like the heat of flames seeping through her skin. The four years that separate the siblings feel like none in the sweet air of twilight.

“I’ll miss you if you go.” He whispers, his voice coarse but comforting.

She rests her head on his shoulder, relishing in this fleeting moment of company. “Maybe I won’t go,” her gaze turns to the sky, marvelling at the wonder of the milky way shining brightly back at her. “I would be afraid on my own anyways.”

“You’re braver than me, Rylla.”

She smiles sadly, “I only pretend.”

*

76 years later…

Rain trickles down the windowpane, the sweet aroma of damp soil and budding blooms lingers in the evening air. The hushed roar of traffic whizzing by is faintly heard over the sound of laughter and excited exclamations. It’s bingo night.

“Mrs. Rylla?”

She turns to see Grace standing in the doorway. Her face is lit by a cheery smile, but her eyes hold a hint of concern. Her uniform is pressed neatly, navy pinstripes skim down the faded blue fabric, faintly enhancing a small crease by the hem.

“You’re not joining bingo tonight?”

She sighs, her heart heavy as she cranks the window a fraction ajar, inhaling deeply as the fresh air seeps into the room, “I believe I will simply watch the rain, dear.”

Grace comes over, her thick blonde hair is woven into two tight braids. “Is everything alright?”

She sighs again, this time deeper as if a lifetime of regrets nestle on her thin shoulders. “I believe so.”

Grace shoots her a look, but it goes unheeded. She grasps the edge of the bedding and straightens it, swiping away any creases marring the neat corners of linen. The room is small, but the large window splaying across the far wall seems to elongate the space, pushing it out onto the small terrace beyond. Photographs rest in gold painted frames, perched on a shelf floating at eye level. The small photos depict a lifetime spent well, smiling children growing up to have their own children. The familiar set of pale blue eyes passed on from generation to generation.

A monstera nestles on a wooden stool, a small blue watering can crouches below the wide green leaves, a small puddle dripping from its thin spout. The light from the room is mellow and warm, shadows from a flickering candle dance along the flowered wallpaper. Discarded newspapers and half-read books lie scattered around a burgundy upholstered armchair in the corner of the room, the cushioning somewhat flattened by years of constant use.

A peaceful silence rests over the pair, as one goes about her job, her mind preoccupied with worries of her favorite patient, whilst the other stares blankly out the window, flickering memories of sunlit cotton fields and the firm comfort from broad branches in the big oak tree on the hill, dancing through in her eyes.

“Have you ever felt regret?”

The sudden words send Grace’s neck snapping up, confusion flickers across her features. “Well, yes of course.” She straightens, staring at the older woman’s hunched back, “What made you ask?”

The windowpane is cool to the touch, her fingertips press gently against the thick sheet of glass, ignoring the stains they leave behind. She turns to look at Grace, steadying herself on the back of the armchair. “When I was but a child, not even a teenager I believe. I lived on a farm in the country with sheep and cotton fields and fresh fruit growing in neat lines.” Her eyes glaze over, a sigh of wistfulness escaping her lips, “I must admit life was pretty good, although I wanted more, I wanted freedom. As in to live my life as I pleased.”

She eases slowly into the chair, as if the weight of her words suck the energy from her bones. Grace rushes to her side, eager to assist.

“I am well, dear.”

“Ok.”

“Anyways, where was I?”

“Freedom, I believe?”

“Ah yes. Well, I used to escape from my home every now and again, it took some courage the first time, but it soon became a regular habit. Mama and Papa were beside themselves. Anyways, as the years bled on, I grew older, and I decided to find my freedom. So, I took an old buggy and a horse, and I set off.” Her eyes stray out the window again, as if the falling raindrops showed faded memories from a childhood so long ago.

“I came to this city, where life was filled with bustling carriages and then motorcars as time went on. For the first few years I thought it was freedom. But you know what, Grace?”

“What, Mrs. Rylla?”

“There is nothing I wouldn’t give to stand in those fields again, and just feel that sweet spring breeze tousle my hair. To caress the soft cotton buds and inhale the fragrant aroma of wildflowers growing on the hillside.”

Tears gather in her eyes, the salty drops pooling on her lashes then spilling down her cheeks, her voice wavers with emotion, “I miss my mother and father, Dustin and the young'uns. I miss the life I gave up for freedom, a freedom I never found. Is it too late, Grace?”

Those pale blue eyes pierce Grace’s wide brown ones, a haunted look of desperation and hopefulness lingering in the swirling sapphire depths.

“For what?” Grace whispers, the words so soft the distant chorus of laughter almost drowns them out.

“To go home.”

*

The sun peeks over lush green hills, shooing away the chill of the night and drying any lingering dew with its summer warmth. Birds chirp loudly in the trees, singing of their undying love for life. As the sun rises higher, a young girl slips from the house, her chestnut curls flowing unhindered down her back as she plucks eggs from the coop and gives hay to the horses. Her bare feet patter along the worn dirt path, avoiding the deep ruts from years of tractors roaming to and fro. Her pale blue eyes glisten in the morning light as she hums a tune under her breath.

The rumble of a car engine turning into the driveway stops the girl in her tracks, halfway to the large farmhouse nestled under the big oak tree. An elderly man steps from the back door, his hands resting casually on his hips as he stands on the verandah.

“Grandpapa? I believe someone is here.” the young girl declares, walking towards the old man.

He leans against the white washed railing peering out over the yard, still feeling spritely and well despite his ripe age of 92. They watch as a sleek black car rolls around the side of the house, shuddering to a halt not too far from them. “Ah, Rylla dear, I believe you are right.” He squints his eyes against the glare of the rising sun as the car doors open. A young blonde woman bustles around to the other side of the car, her brown eyes darting nervously their way.

The man rests an arm around his granddaughter, only half for support. They watch silently, with just a hint of impatience as the young woman helps someone from the vehicle. An elderly woman stands somewhat shakily, her thin bony hand clutching at an intricately carved walking stick.

The man’s hand flies to his chest the moment the familiar blue eyes sweep his way. “Rylla…” He breathes.

“Yes, Grandpapa?” the young girl asks at the sound of her name.

The man reaches down and takes her hand in his larger one, “Come dear, I would like you to meet your namesake.”