Till Then

Till Then

Armani Kieran

The tea began steaming into the air, emanating the heat from the beverage. Swaths of greens swirled around inside the cream colored mug, sending a subtle leafy scent into the air. Is there anything else you’d like for me to take note of Mrs. Kettle?” The woman stirred from her light sleep, and blinked her eyes open at the young woman before her. The young woman wore a black pants suit, and was typing on a laptop, papers scattered all over the desk: a lawyer. The woman smiled gently. “Hmm” she hummed. For a moment she seemed to be thinking about something not of this world. “Mrs. Kettle?” The woman blinked for a moment and turned slowly to look at the young woman again. “Ah, I think that will be all dear. Thank you” she said. The woman nodded, and began to pick up her things. The older woman closed her eyes once again. Her face was wrinkled, and dark circles lined the under portion of her eyes. Her deep coffee toned skin was still sprinkled with freckles, and although the woman was still very old, it seemed that her aura was not. The door creaked as the young lawyer began to close it, and then halted. “Mrs Kettle?” “Yes dear” she replied without opening her eyes. “Have a safe trip” she said solemnly. The woman huffed a small laugh. “Oh I will dear, this isn’t my first time y’know.” The lawyer smiled sadly and bowed her head. “Of Course'' she replied, and gently closed the old wooden door. Light taps echoed from the floorboards in the home as the young lawyer quietly left the home. The house was quiet, except for the light sounds of dragonflies and cicadas outside. The sky was clear as big puffs and powdered sugar colored clouds swam in the sky. The woman stirred from a light sleep. The sun still shone brightly through the windows, it was still daytime. The woman looked at the mug of tea sitting beside her. She slowly leaned over the bed and grasped the mug. Though the tea had long gone cold, as the woman took a sip, the steam poured out from inside the mug. She swallowed and smiled at the familiar, homey taste. Once the tea was gone, the woman used all her strength to stand, leaning on one side of the bed, the IV fluid still attached to her thin wrist. She glanced in the mirror at the reflection looking back at her, and she frowned slightly. Her once blossoming voluminous curls were now barely small strands of curls here and there, the chemotherapy had rid her of all the rest. But as she looked at her reflection longer, she smiled. “Well, I’m still as youthful as ever,” she said. She slipped on a pair of slippers and opened the door of her bedroom. The home was small, but it felt so big at the same time. All the furniture in the home was made of wood, polished into a shiny chestnut color. The small wooden table in the corner had an antique tablecloth covering it. Its cream colored edges reached over the table in the shape of a five petaled flower, and the color was still a vibrant white. Atop this table, a small vase of rafflesia flowers, and although the flower is known for its’ repulsive odor, somehow the room still smells fresh. Around the room in different corners of the kitchen and anywhere there was room, sat vibrant green plants, giving color and life to the antique home. The woman walked over to the far corner of the room, where a piano sat. the tips of her frail fingers touched the edges of the old wooden instrument. The piano was built with chestnut colored wood, and the stand to hold music sheets was carved into a beautiful design. The top of the piano was covered in green plants of all kinds, and even some indoor flowers, which added splotches of pink and yellow across the top. The seat in front of the instrument was wooden, but it was not the same color. The wood of the seat was a decrapite, one of the legs being too small, so when it was used, the chair would lean slightly. There were jagged edges here and there along the sides from being completely handmade. The woman peered down at the cushion of the seat. Although the wood of the chair itself was severely worn down, the cushion was surprisingly not as much so. The once cream colored cushion had lost a bit of its’ color, but most of it had retained the original design. Across the seat, a small sparrow resting on branches of Aronia arbutifolia, the bright red berries popping with color against the cream-colored cushion. In the corner was a small embroidery, which read, “To my Love. I hope this will support you through the years. Yours Forever, Leonard.” The woman smiled slightly as her fingers gently floated atop the embroidery of the cushion. Her eyes seemed to go out of focus for a few moments, as if she was reminiscing on a blissful time. Her hands reached out towards the piano, and she gently sat down in the decrepit old seat. Her fingers shook with even the slightest movement, but she slowly raised her hands to rest on the keys of the instrument. Though her hands shook violently, as her fingers began dancing across the keys, they ceased to shake. Her fingers moved slowly, and she moved her head back and forth, as if she was absorbing the emotions of the music. The song was somber and quiet, but it held so much power and energy as the notes shook through the small cottage. Her fingers flowed to and fro across the keys in a solemn melody, like a ballet dancer taking the stage for the last time. The song soon came to an end, and as it did the woman breathed out a sigh. She slowly got up from the stool and sat on one of the wooden chairs by the table. Atop the tablecloth sat a small black typewriter. The woman moved herself in front of the typewriter, and fed it a sheet of old paper. The typewriter dinged. She wrote

Dear Vera ,

How have you been my dear? It has been so long since I have seen you last. How time has passed. I think of you everyday. How is the baby? She should be born by now, isn’t that right? She must be so beautiful. How is Gladstone doing? He is such a lovely man. I know he will be a wonderful father to her. Well, I won’t bore you any longer with small talk. The truth is, I will be leaving soon. I won’t be going too far, but it seems my soul has decided its’ had enough of this world, and is ready to move on to the next. How exciting! I can feel my soul bursting with eagerness to pass on and move to my next life. So my dear daughter, please do not be sad. Your soul will move on later as well, and then I will meet you in the next life! 

Tears brimmed and poured down the old woman’s face. 

“I hope I can be your mother once again. Raising you is my pride and joy. I must be the luckiest woman in the world. Thank you, my daughter. For deciding to let me guide your soul. Please take care. And I will see you again soon darling. 

Yours Truly,

Kathleen Kettle

The woman’s slender fingers hovered over the typewriter for a moment, and she let out a breath, as if realizing that something much bigger than this small world was just put into motion. She smiled slightly at the note, and pulled the paper from the typewriter. Laying next to it, she had hand made an envelope. It was a muddy brown color, and inside was an array of colorful flowers that had been preserved and dried in the pages of the letter. The woman folded the letter into the envelope, and using wax and a stamp, sealed it with a purple emblem. On the front she wrote, Vera in large cursive letters, and placed the letter gently by the potted flowers on the small table. She slowly got up and walked towards the door. As she did, she looked around at the rest of her home. Plants were placed perfectly across all the rooms, and the windows let in the bright light of summer. She turned the knob of her front door and opened it, and was overwhelmed with the surrounding warmth of sunlight. For many minutes, she stood there basking in the intense warmth of the sun. everything became so quiet, she could even hear her own heartbeat. As time went by, and the sun became warmer, her heartbeat seemed to slow. The old woman smiled slightly to herself and muttered to herself “I am ready”. And as the words escaped her lips, the sound of her heartbeat went silent.