Note from Tara: I’m going to do something a little different today. I hope that’s okay. I was going through my writing when I found this piece. It’s a ‘descriptive writing’ assignment our daughter, Mila, completed at the age of sixteen or seventeen. I think it’s beautiful and speaks to the beauty of her everlasting, loving heart. Most of you know that Mila died just over a year ago. She teaches me now. She shows me how she lives on in ways more profound and real than anything we can even fathom. I love this piece because it speaks to her incredible connection and willingness to be touched by simple beauty. If I may indulge myself some, I would love for you all to know a little piece of her wondrous spirit, too. I think you might like her.
Before Dawn
by Mila
{Author’s note: While I was writing this story I had my Grandmother in mind. Being so distant from me, she’s always asking me what I’m doing or what my life is like. While writing this I thought she would really enjoy reading it, as she would be able to directly imagine exactly what I feel, smell, see, and hear on a regular basis, bringing her closer to me. She also grew up on a farm so I think she will enjoy reading this.}
My six o’clock alarm starts, chimes of bells pulling me from my sleep. My room is dark, the world is dark, the warmth of my sheets asking me to stay inside and not enter the cold air outside of my cocoon. Goosebumps rise on my arms as I slide out of bed dozily and put on the rough, scratchy fabric of my overalls. I button up a plaid shirt, blacks and whites crisscrossing. Fatigue blurs my vision, makes my body feel heavy, limbs feeling like wooden blocks I’m forcing to move.
I head downstairs and head out onto the porch where my breath fogs into a cloud as I put on my jacket and boots, cold material I hope will warm soon. I get two metal buckets, and fill one with warm soapy water. The sun’s rays start to creep through the edges of the sky; dawn’s first light. Pale yellow reaches up into the dark. Stars disappearing one by one.
Spring’s soggy grasses swallow my rubber boots as I traverse the worn path to the barn. The air is cool and damp, wind bringing the sweet smell of life and rebirth. The tree branches, pushed and pulled by the wind, claw at the worn wood of the old barn, a building that slants more to the left with each passing year. I slide open the metal latch and the ancient door groans in resistance as I pull to open it.
My headlamp illuminates the darkness, a circular spotlight for all that I see. The smell of hay and fur circulates throughout the air, particles of dust filtering and floating in the light of my headlamp. Bee, our tan Jersey cow with a crooked nose, moos in response to my entering. Her horizontal pupils shine bright in my headlamp, her mouth full of dry hay, chomping down on it with a dull crunch. She continues chewing, rhythmically, as I wash her udder with the warm water which drips down onto her bed of straw.
I sit on a bucket, the edges of it protruding into my skin. My head rests in the crease where Bee’s thigh meets her belly, a little indent; the perfect space to rest my weight. I lean into her and she accepts me. A connection between her and I, a mutual understanding of our purpose there. Her coarse brown hair against my sleepy, pale skin. The strong beating of her heart echoes into my ears. Bee’s breath, laced with the sweet smell of hay, warms us both and all the while the slow rise and fall of her belly cradles my head. The milk hits the bottom of the empty bucket with force, splashing back up with a dull tinny ring. The bucket slowly fills with frothy milk, faint wisps of steam rising as it does.
Esmerelda Junior, our little brown and white barn cat, appears at the siren song of milk filling a metal bucket. She rubs herself against my boots, purring, looking up with large eyes filled with expectation. Her long winter fur a thick parka she will soon be shedding in spring’s finer weather. She sits down purring, her tiny front paws kneading the straw below her, never taking her eyes off of the milk she so dearly wants. I call her name and aim a stream of milk towards her. Trained for this task, she opens her mouth and gulps up every last drop I share. Droplets of milk drip down her nose and leave little lines of wet fur that gather at her chin. She drinks until her belly is round and hard, then contentedly curls up in a bed of straw to clean herself.
The rising sun outside filters light in through the cracks of the wooden barn walls. With my bucket now full of warm, fresh milk, I thank Bee with scratches on her chin; her favourite spot. She pushes her head against my hand, her way of saying “more, more”. I kiss Esmerelda Junior’s little forehead, a perfect little dot of brown, and she paws at my face.
I step outside to be welcomed by a rosy sunrise, pinks and reds illuminating the sky. The land is emerging from a shroud of black to a world of colour, where only a few stars remain shining. The smell of wood smoke spills from the house chimney, setting off grumbling in my stomach. There will be bacon and eggs cooking on the old wood stove now, a breakfast made complete with the milk in my bucket. I quicken my step in anticipation.
Seems the daughter was as fine a writer as the mother. A precious token of her essence left behind, allowing the world to know and honor her.
Thank you for sharing this. Did the impulse to do so catch you by surprise?
What has really interested me the most about my mums passing is how much of a relationship we still have, how much impact she still has, something still builds as much as so much has stopped. I had never come across the idea that something still generates after someone is gone.
You’re touching a lot of lives by sharing Mila’s insight and creativity. Thank you so much.