| Her Legacy Picture shades of gray... stone grays, cold stones that build a floor and a wall. You can tell they are cold because there are little drips of water caught in the cracks. A dank cell, of cold damp grayed stones. See only the one wall with a tiny window, high high up, so high it can not be reached even by a tall tall man. With black iron bars, and so small no light is fully allowed into the grayness, but you can see the bright blue of the sky. Today the sky is brilliant blue with wispy whorls of clouds showing teasing glimpses. The kind of clouds the grandmother’s called horse tails, probably because they look a bit alike. Now look again at that stone wall and the see what you would not see before. What your mind just did not want to accept. Stretching up that wall a tiny baby hand and arm, so perfectly chubby, rounded, dimpled perfection and tiny... See the dewy skin, the soft buttery perfect miniature arcs of nails at the tips of the reaching fingers. You could not see this before, your mind can not quite accept what it sees. After all no one would lock a baby away in the dark, away from light, away from love. Look again, part in disbelief, and notice details... Around the sweetly perfect arm, so big it has slid down that outstretched limb to catch and hang crooked at the little elbow bend, a bracelet of rare and stunning beauty. The precious metals polished and glowing even in this darkness as if it is reflecting all the light that might reach into the gray. Jewels of the most beautiful hues and richness, faceted and set perfectly by the hand of a Master craftsman. Each gem glittering as if they too have gathered all the light that might find its way in, and now scatters it back in rainbow sparks. Priceless crafted gifted beauty locked away as well in this dank dungeon. A glittering treasure wrapped on the arm of the perfect promise of life. Blink, take a deep breath, it can not be true. No one would lock away a baby! Open your eyes to see. gray stones, damp, cold stone floor, wet stone wall, and up up that wall, the same tiny window. Black iron barred small patch of sky to be seen, today a paler gray than the walls. Weeping clouds cover all, drip, drip, drips... outside the window, inside it too. Rivulets of water channeling down tiny paths the cracks between the joined stones make. In one place a miniature waterfall is formed as it spills over the edge of a stone slightly pushed out into the cell more than all the rest. Kind of a pretty stone, it has a touch of pink in it, so it’s not all gray here after all. See now the hand and arm you were afraid to see again. No, not the perfection of a baby this time, but a young child. A thin arm, but the larger hand of a growing child. Eight-Nine-Ten? Maybe even as old as Twelve? How can you tell? It is dark and when not nourished properly children fail to thrive and growth is stunted. Caught on the forearm is that glowing bracelet. Metal still gleaming with light, the jewels still darkly flashing their treasure. Blink, take a deep breath, struggle to deal with the thoughts... could this be that same baby growing up in a dank dungeon? After all no one would lock away a baby... Open your eyes to see, gray stones, cold wet gray all around, the floor, the wall. That dammed wall, up up high the tiny window barred in black iron, a small patch of sky. A sky dark dark dark and then a brilliant flash. Storm of storms raging outside that wall. Thunder crashing down to shake the grayed stones. The hand and arm reach into view. No longer a child, you now can see it is the hand of a woman. The beauty of the baby’s promise shows in the tapered gracefulness, smooth skin, long fingers, slim wrist. Look to see that hand that could be soft and gentle, the perfect idea of feminine loveliness open and flatten to strike at the stones of the wall. Three of the glowing shell like nails torn, cracked, and bleeding. The side of the hand bruised as it balls into a fist and pounds the wall. Around that slim wrist clasped tightly into a perfect fit that work of art bracelet. The metals still glowing, the gems sparkling and flaring each time she opens her hand reaching to the storm. Reaching to the storm and seeming with her fingertips to pull the very lightning strikes out of the sky to crack into the iron barred window causing the stones of the wall to dance with blue fires. That priceless treasured bracelet darkly sparkling, curved in a fit that seems as if it was made for this woman and this woman only. Glittering as that hand gracefully is caught and writhes with the storm. Blink in a flash, shudder, it can not be the same? She showed such power and strength even as a captive. How could anyone grow in a dungeon? It could be the baby, but no one would lock away a baby...Would they? Open your eyes to see, gray stones, chilled, bitter damp gray stone floor, wall. See it in a dim light, look up up to that black iron barred window. So high not even a tall tall man could reach it. The sky is still dark before dawn, a single star shines. Watch in total silence as the star fades and the darkness becomes complete Then slowly, so very very slowly it gets misty and gray silver, a slight lightning to the black. You watch with a patience you did not know you had... the sky glows to lavender than a flare of greens and pinks fire through it. You are not in the cell, but for some reason you feel the cold dampness of it invade your bones as you watch the sky shade to indigo than split into five or is it six? shades of blue. And a touch of purple, then some gold, warm sun gold, a brief glare that makes you squint and blink. Then the hand and arm are there, again stretching up against the wall. Slow achy stretch, sleepy easy stretch to wake muscles and circulation. The hand is still soft skinned, graceful still even in its stiffness, fingers crooked now skin lose between them. Dark age spots speckle the back and down the wrist and up the arm. The wrist and arm have shrunk with age, and again reminds you of the child’s. A small tremor shakes the hand causing the glowing perfect treasured bracelet to drop down the stretching arm and catch sparkling in the dawns pale light, about the same place it did on the child’s arm. This hand and arm is slow, tired, one or two stretches and it disappears. Blink, take a deep breath, have you seen a life passed in a cell? Who would lock up a baby? Open your eyes to see, gray stones, cold damp floor and wall, black iron barred window so high high up. A blue blue sky with wispy clouds almost as the first time you looked out this window. Look for the hand, the arm, the treasure, curious now for the first time, needing to understand. Look again, do you see what you see? The bracelet for the first time is off the arm, grasped so weakly in the ancient hand. That beautiful hand now almost claw like, so weak you know it is time for it to fade to mist, release at last. Feel the sinking in your heart, and the fire in your belly as that weak fading hand with great love and care slips the bracelet onto a perfectly chubby, rounded, dimpled tiny baby arm. The precious metals still glowingly polished, the perfect jewels precisely set by the hand of a Master still sparkling, showing rainbow glitters. Watch as that tiny baby hand with its legacy slipping high up its arm start to reach for the dim light so far above. Close your eyes with a sobbing groan pulling from your chest. People do lock away babies you have seen it, fight the terrorized scream tearing at your throat. Think and wonder if some how, some way, what if that little baby was not given a legacy that it cannot truly understand... What baby understand the artistry even of a Master in a bejeweled bracelet? Maybe it will be good to cut teeth on when the time comes, but that is about it. And the child, what does she know of fine jewels and treasures? The young woman was the only one it fit on for time. That angry, damaged woman that was caught by and danced in the storm. It fit, but she might even have been dangerous in the power she had in that time. The old than ancient woman slow and fading had no use for it, only living long enough to pass on. What if?... what if that baby instead of reaching for the air, light, freedom she needs... These things kept far out of her reach, so they can not be earned or given to her... What if that baby even only for a moment reached down to her Mother Earth? Reached back to her foundation, and in that one reach the legacy bracelet treasure slipped off of her arm. Slipped off to hit the stones with a soft clank. What if with that clank the stones faded to mist as the ancient hand had and the baby was suddenly upon grassy knoll, sky all around, out in the open air? What if that baby was allowed to crawl, then stumble, then toddle along paths found? Paths the spirits guide to, the paths right for her to grow strong on, the paths right for her to learn on. What if we reached down to our Mother? And let the Master’s legacy slip from us? Will it be allowed? |
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| Copy right 2000 All rights retained by author reprinting by permission only |
