The parlor smells of lemon polish this morning, the light gentle.  Mama smooths my dress, settles the great white bow onto my curls, and gently settles Papa’s Heberlein violin beneath my chin.  He left it behind when he went west last spring to help lay new railroad lines.  His last letter, dated April 1913, dusted with the scent of travel, said he missed its voice almost as much as ours.  Outside our window, automobiles rattle past like impatient beetles, suffragettes gather on the corner of Bedford and DeKalb, banners snapping in the breeze.  Even the newspapers talk of troubles spreading across Europe, though Mama insists the world has weathered storms before. The photographer asks me to hold still, but my fingers ache to play Papa’s melody. Mama says this portrait will travel to him soon, proof that his music hasn’t gone quiet at home.

Morning light softened the old farmhouse standing warm and quiet in the distance as if holding its breath.  Grandma had sent her outside, “Your mama needs quiet right now," she whispered, hurrying back into the house.  So with plaid wool coat belted snuggly about her waist, Sarah gripped the handle of the old wooden garden cart, slowly collecting items from the newly cropped field:  smooth stones, crow feathers, a crooked twig shaped like a wishbone and arranged them like treasures in her cart.  Finnegan bound ahead, red coat gleaming in the growing light.  She paused often, listening.  Every breeze felt like a promise, every birdcall a celebration.  The field hummed softly, the barns in the distance stood guard.  Then, a faint newborn cry floated from the farmhouse, drifting across the field like music and her heart soared.  This was the greatest treasure of all!

by Margaret Bednar, November 29, 2025

This is linked with "Sepia Saturday #803"  I have written to one of my favorite Photos on Board I have in my collection - 144 words exactly.  

Also linked with "Poets and Storytellers #205"