A Cloudy Wednesday Morning

Zaria; it was Russian for sunrise. She was born at sunrise and
everyone loved her name.

When she was younger her Mother would take her to the park; even today
Zaria could recall the sounds of this village park like ghosts in her
memory so precious of names for children never concieved.

The images in her mind, of fall colors and young couples, were all
blurred but the vocals, they were clear to her. The laughter of
neighborhood boys and the whispers of warm summer winds were as close
to her now as they had been as a child and more than all these she kept
the sound of her Mother's voice; as personal as if it came from her
very own body, spoke her very own thoughts.

It was painful to hear now, her Mother's voice. Time had left it rusty
and dry; even it's content had been soured by the tragic bitterness of
age.

It was better not to think about and she noticed there were more
flowers today. Many symbolic of sympathy, the others of duty and
responsibility.

The school librarian, Jane was the name that came to mind, she died
after the entire class bought her flowers and this made Zaria nervous
now as it did then. But at least fourty years had come and gone since
that day, maybe she was being foolish; the overactive imagination of an
exhausted and worried mind.

One bouquet was from Maria. Zaria had not seen Maria or her husband in
many years, not since their daughter came back to the village to wed.
It was a beautifully decieving wedding; white roses and blue
lace.

Everyone felt they were a wonderful match but with time Zaria heard the
young couple had divorced, moved into different homes. Her Mother
explained they had been sleeping in different beds for months and even
Maria was expectant and accepting of the separation.

All this made Zaria imagine the roses, the flower of love, to be an
ironic choice.

The other flowers, two bouquets, were both from Jonas and Lise but
Zaria suspected Lise had sent the flowers herself. She wondered how
their business was going. Lise, never one to be intimidated, had spent
a priceless amount of time creating a sort of hotel.

Zaria knew everything would be wonderful. She always felt sad that fate
had given Lise such a small part to play; everyone she met was shadowed
by the fortitude of her character. The card was cute; Lise always did
have a knack for picking out appropriate cards.

"Zaria?"

Her thoughts scattered, millions of irretrievable pieces thrown into
the far corners of her mind: reality. Zaria could not express or even
understand the feeling of resentment. Harder still to live with was the
fear; but why fear? No matter, she thought, this too shall pass, "Mama,
you're awake," A smile, sincere, "How are you feeling today...?"

It took her Mother an aweful time to speak and even then there was the
rusty and dry sound, whisper. She seemed almost porous as though,
inside her, no breath. A face distorted, not by pain but with
determination and struggle, "Where...is the nurse?" Struggle,
determination, "My breakfast, I want my pancakes and coffee...now. I am
hungry now...where is...the nurse?"

Zaria stood for a moment too long, silent and empty, waiting as though
for affection which would never come; which had not come in many years.
The anger was difficult to hold inside and the pressure of doing so
made her eyes fill but still she stood and still she waited. When she
was younger, in that park, her Mother would hold her and whisper sweet
words.

Now there was just this mess. The resentment and fear were growing
stronger.

"Zaria...get my...fucking pancakes..."

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Zaria craved the sound of her husband's voice. She twisted the phone
cord around her fingers and leaned against the booth, eyes closed,
unspeaking. His words penetrated deep inside her, raping her, leaving
the tears of pressure and anger to absord back into her skin.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself, Zaria."

A deep sigh, Zaria wished she could hold his face against her own,
"She's...the woman is senile, she doesn't even know who you are, I
mean...fuck..." His strong arms, his strong eyes, she needed him fast
and now, "You should just cut her off...you should come back
home!"

Zaria took the reciever and pressed it against her chest, pushing her
hips hard against the wall. Sexual innuendos flowed freely in her mind,
liberated in the days of feminism and cast in iron by strong will and a
courageous heart. A deep sigh, another moment too long, "Thank you,
Bill...I love you."

She glanced through an open window into the courtyards outside;
permitting a moment of indulgence thinking about the laughing boys and
warm summer breezes.

Wiped eyes, patted skirt; she began the slow, determined struggle back
into her Mother's dry and rusty room.

"I fought in the war...did you know that? I fought those bastards...I
did...in the war..."

Maybe it was the drugs? Maybe it was just the ravages of time? Zaria
could remember days when her Mother's voice was a source of infinite
knowledge, of wisdom and contentment. The word mess came to mind again.
Resentment and fear; again.

There was a painting in the cooridor, farther down the hall, which
expressed her despair perfectly. It was abstract, no shape and no
meaning - perfect. The purple was strong, the blue was weak and the
yellow just did not belong. The walls were yellow, she noticed. A
smile, "No Mother, don't you remember? You worked as a nurse in
Stalingrad. You did not fight."

Every day her Mother's eyes were farther away, her soul dissapearing
silently inside a cage of arthritic bones and wrinkled flesh. These
words, this voice, belonged more in the park. Her Mother had become the
older women, the birdseeds and pidgeons.

Zaria shook her head to scatter, again, her thoughts. Impossible, the
ladies in the park loved Zaria, it was such a beautiful name. Inside
her Mother was madness, nothing more and everything less.

"Yes...yes...this is true..." A moments pause, perhaps she was falling
back into sleep? No; the hand was moving, the eyelids partially open,
"Still I fought with Russia. I hated...Russia. The cold, the
cold..."

Zaria smiled, curious. She examined her Mother from different angles -
is she speaking nonsense again? Her Mother loved Russia; everyone loved
her name, "What do you mean, Mama?" The fear was growing; Zaria felt
the stress and anticipation as moments passed without response, "You
loved Russia. You named me after the...the beautiful sunrise the
morning I was born."

Asleep. The eyelids were silent but she convinced herself of movement;
the hand lay still but she imagined those dry, rusty fingers between
her own, "Mama?"

The old woman's chest rose and fell slightly with these same porous
breaths and Zaria closed her eyes, wishing she too could so easily
escape reality.

"It...was not beautiful...the Russian sun...the sun there is a cold
orb...it did not even...rise...it did not rise the morning you were
born."

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Zaria lay down deep in her husband's arms. The summer breezes and
laughing boys of the park were closer than they had ever been and still
she felt distant from them; reality and memory fighting each other for
the better view of events already past.

She had not seen her Mother in years; they came and went, each one the
same as the last. Still her heart lay shattered; time was a slow
repairman.

However, this park in this village which she loved so much was filled
with new sounds and clear faces that helped to sooth away the fear and
resentment. Remember to breathe.

"I can't believe you used to come here as a child," The strong arms,
the strong eyes; love was true and every glance in his direction placed
her heart closer to completion, "You're very lucky. Most people do not
have such a place..." A kiss.

Happiness was so close but a beautiful name was holding her back,
caging her as someone trapped, waiting for affection which will never
come, "You should call her."

She longed for a phone at her breast and her hips against a booth; a
beautiful voice of wisdom which knew who she was and named her after
the sunrise.

Still she imagined herself as the russian sun, a cold orb void of
feelings and life; convinced herself she was everything a rusty and dry
voice had so cruely said on that day.

--------------------------------------

Maria had sent roses again and the irony was stronger than ever. Zaria
made sure they were as far from the coffin as possible; wishing they
made daisies in black.

Not even black was dark enough to express this anguish. She thought of
buying the painting in the hospital cooridor, hanging it somewhere deep
inside her heart.

Still, deeper inside, she longed for the sounds of the park, for her
Mother's sweet whispers. Hearing rusty insults would still be better
than this silence.

The funeral was decieving with the white and blue of the ill-fated
wedding years before. Cold as ever she tried to remember to
breathe.

"We're here tonight, as you know..." Of course she knew, "For the
reading of the last will and testament."

Moments passed and brick by brick the architecture of her Mother's life
was passed amongst the family as thoughts in Zaria's exhausted mind.
The will had been updated; there would be nothing for the cold Russian
sun her Mother hated so.

The curtains were black, thank God for that much at least. At first she
did not hear and everyone watched - Maria, Lise, Jonas and their
children - waiting for a reaction that, like years of affection, did
not come.

"Zaria," a gentle nudge. Maria's daughter glanced at the man and back
at her; eyes full of tears, beautiful as diamonds. Zaria sank deeper
still into her husband's strong arms, "You loved her, Zaria. That is
the most...the only important thing. Take it."

Zaria wondered what it is she was being asked to take; another cold
night, another exhausting day? A thin brown envelope was placed on her
lap; Zaria written across it by a rusty and dry hand. Fear and
resentment; again; straining to hear the sounds of laughing
children.

"Enough, Mama..."

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Zaria wanted to do this alone, she had yelled. Weeks passed since the
funeral and she had taken enough strength from his arms, looked into
his eyes long enough to build a heart capable of tearing brown paper
envelopes.

Fall colors and young couples surrounded her in the village park, the
sounds of laughing boys and summer winds caressing her soul.

The fear and resentment, again; but maybe she was stronger? No matter,
she thought, either way it was surely better to know. Remember to
breathe.

A hospital napkin, yellow with age; words written by another woman in
another life. Zaria read the words aloud, words written in a voice as
dear and personal as her own and felt nameless emotions so wonderful -
sweet whispers.

She read swiflty, her tired heart rejuvenated by every word and still
she wished she could read faster. The fall colors and young couples
around her became blurry but the sounds were strong and clear...

The sun did not rise the morning you were born.
You were born on a cloudy Wednesday morning.
You were my sunrise.

...She closed her eyes and turned towards the sun, smiling and crying
both as one. For the first time in years, she felt warm.

Dedicated to Zaria Rostagnovic and her late Mother Ana-Liza Karchevnic
of Prijedor, Bosnia.