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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is a story centered on girl-child longing for her mother who died shortly after giving birth to her. Kids can play around with this.

Submitted: October 08, 2017

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Submitted: October 08, 2017




As I stood erect, I descried my late wife's picture accurately fixed at the upper left corner of the full-length floor standing mirror. My hands weakened, and the tie I was knotting almost slipped. In the first eleven months of my marital life, Juliet took this upon herself; she would comb my hair, knot my tie, and do me up with jacket - and a kiss that would last a whole day. 

Staring at the picture, my heart reached for her, I could hear my own heartbeat, and my eyes were filled with glittering glisters of tears threatening to swim down my face as my mind journeyed back in time. Flashes of every bit of the sweet moments we had popped in: Oh! The day I proposed, our wedding night, the day she told me she was three weeks out, and the level of ecstasy and great delight that defined her countenance and mien, seeing me hold the infant frame of our daughter, while she lay in hospital bed - dying.

I swallowed, strained my eyes, and knotted sluggishly. It'd been six years, and every sunrise and sunset brought her loving memory.

"Please, take good care of her", she had pleaded repeatedly with tears - in her farewell words - before she took her last breath, "Sophie! That's what I want her to be called". I couldn't change it. It was her last wish which I respected. The Doctors knew! She knew! I knew! Even family members knew she stood no chance of surviving the complications she suffered during childbirth.

"Sophie must not see me like this", I muttered under my breath. I grabbed my jacket, and left for Sophie - who had initially come to inform me that she was ready for school.

Seeing her door ajar as I approached, I whimpered at her before entering gently. She was kneeling in front of her mother's 12" x 12" portrait.

"Sophie dear, we should go now"

Without looking at me, she said: "I don't even know what her touch feels like", as her fingers ran across her mother's still face.

Oh God! Not again! I crept towards her, and knelt right of her.

"I miss her Dad," she said with her babyish voice.

Did we feel her absence at the same time?

Tears threatened to erupt from her eyes; she was just a second away from crying.

"Sweet Sophie, you..."

"Dad, I had no mother to wash my infant head", said she, with a tottering voice.

"Sophie..." Her breath was characterized with continuous convulsive gasps, and tears flooded her cheeks.

"I have no mother to...", she hesitated, "...sing lullaby for me Dad. All I have is her picture..." she cried.

I hugged her tight, our frames felt like merging as they clasped. "...It's just her picture" I was short of words.

"I want my mother Dad. I want her touch, her hug, her smile, even if it's just once". I held her arms, and looked into my daughter's eyes, all I saw was Juliet. She had taken all her mother's facial features. I couldn't say a single word but cry. I hugged her again and said; "Mother's gone Sophie. And I miss her more than you do".

My phone rang; it was my mother. She was the only person who could assuage Sophie in this condition, and her call came just in time. I pressed the green button and set it on loudspeaker.

"Hello Mum", I said, "Sophie is at it again"

"Sophie darling", Mum called with a soft, low-pitch voice.

"Grandma...", she said, crying.

"Sweetheart, I need you to listen to me carefully, Okay?"

I knelt up, and watched her listen to Mum's allaying sermon.


© Copyright 2019 A.R. Olagunju. All rights reserved.

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