Birdsong and Sunrise

Lucy swayed back and forth, slowly studying the faces above the mantle. Four sets of eyes peered back at her. Well, five, really, if she counted Penelope, the old siamese perched on the book shelf behind them.

“That nasty cat,” she whispered, with a smile to herself. Jack squirmed in her arms, the weight of him a reminder of the passing of time. She could feel the moisture from his feverish brow begin to cool on her shoulder as he shifted positions, searching for comfort in her arms despite the heat of the night and his own rising temperature. She breathed slowly as he settled, continuing to sway on the cool oak floor as she returned to examining the portrait.

Ben had recently told her of the mishaps of that photo shoot and she imagined them playing out, each personality crashing into the other as they sought their own measure of control over the sitting. A loving, yet stern mother. A quiet and even-tempered father. And, two brothers that shared personality, looks, and parts of their lives that they didn’t yet realize.

Margaret wanted a proper memory of them in their home. A home that had been passed down through generations, seeing families struggle and prosper from the early days of gold in pans to the days of green gold hanging from trees. And so, they had pulled together the money and the photographer agreed to come out for a short, and costly, sitting. The boys had pleaded with Margaret to allow Penelope to be part of the photo despite their mother’s disapproval and forbidding of such a thing. Margaret wasn’t very fond of the cat, as Penelope seemed to be kind to everyone but her. Yet, Penelope had been around for as long as Margaret could remember, and Ben and Abel had loved her. So, she let her stay.

All had gone smoothly as far as Margaret was concerned on that day. The boys had vocally given up on the idea of the cat joining them and the photographer never indicated there was anything amiss. Yet, when it came time to view the photos weeks later, Margaret was dismayed at the sight of Penelope peering back at her, perched on the shelf above her very own head. Ben had recounted Margaret flying into a rage, and chasing both the cat and the boys out the door after they confessed to their part in the mischief, having placed a large enough amount of tuna on the bookshelf in order to keep Penelope quiet and still long enough to be included in the family’s photographic memories.

Ben had described Margaret as a loving, yet stern, mother. And, Lucy could see it there, in the combination of firmly set jaw and warm hazel eyes that smiled back at her from the photo. Those eyes communicated both strength and compassion all at once.

Lucy sighed. It wouldn’t be long before these photos would be the only thing left of Margaret. The doctors had given her just weeks before anticipating that her body would give out and finally be at rest. Lucy was not sure how to feel about it all. Margaret had welcomed her into their family, hesitantly at first. But, she had come to love Lucy over their short years together. And, Margaret most certainly delighted in her grandson. That was beyond clear.

From the first days, Margaret had beamed with pride at the sight of Jack, carefully rocking him and comforting his cries. She would wake early to check on Lucy and offer help whenever she sensed it was needed. As Jack grew, Lucy would often catch them reading or racing cars across the hall way, scaring the cat with their shrieks of laughter. On the best days, Lucy would find them relaxing on the porch swing, feet dangling in the breeze, hands intertwined, chatting about the clouds. Sometimes, Margaret would even treat Jack to a small lecture on genetics and the latest apple hybrid to be planted in the orchard that year. Jack loved his grandmother, and she loved him right back.

Genetics were a funny thing, she thought, as she gazed at the brothers sitting side-by-side on the rug below their parents. Ben sat just an inch or so taller than Abel and about a year older. If you didn’t know it, though, you would guess them twins, the resemblance was so striking. Same dirty blonde, rustled hair. Same wide forehead, wispy brows, and mischievous smile. These, they had acquired from their father. The only notable difference beyond height was the color of their eyes. Margaret had passed on her warm hazel to Abel, while Ben had inherited his father’s deep, solemn brown.

Jack stirred again and Lucy shushed him back to sleep, patting his back and moving his sweat drenched locks back from his face. The air in the room shifted as a breeze rustled the curtains. She could hear the porch swing begin to creak as it swayed gently outside, inviting her to rest. She moved across the room and out the door, stepping lightly so as not to wake Jack or the other sleeping bodies throughout the house.

Lucy sank into the swing, laying Jack on the smooth bench beside her, his head in her lap. She let out another sigh as she stroked his blonde, rustled hair and looked out at the bright moon reflecting off the lake. Jack would be old enough to remember Margaret even after she was gone, and this comforted Lucy. And beyond memories and photographs, he would always have her hazel eyes staring back at him from his own reflection. Lucy would tell him so.