A Prairie Rose

Chapter 4

The next morning, Pa was in an awful mood. I found it surprising- he had fallen asleep early the night before, so he surely hadn't awoken with a headache. And if he was anything like me, he had slept better than he had in months.

But every, little thing seemed to bother him. First he was angry that I had set out the food on a blanket on the floor, despite us not having a real table. Then he was angry that he could not find the salt, despite it being just between the flour and cornmeal, as I had said. Then he tripped over an uneven notch in the ground, and kicked the log wall as if it were somehow the houses' fault. That only hurt his foot, though, making him even angrier.

Eventually, and seemingly out of nowhere, Pa finally exploded. "These blasted cracks are driving me crazy! Rose, make yourself useful and start patching them up."

As he spoke, the cracks between the logs cast rays of sunshine on to him, making him appear striped. 

I stood at once, already making for the door. "Yes, Pa. What should I patch them with?"

He clenched his teeth, seeming angry that I did not already know. "Go take some pails and bring back mud and moss. Get going."

And so my day was spent going all around the house, pushing moss and mud and little pebbles into the cracks all along it. It was men's work, but I did not mind so much. As I worked, I sang songs like Pop Goes the Weasel and Oh Susanna and Yankee Doodle. Then I sang the Lavender's Blue Dilly Dilly Lullaby, twirling around as I filled the holes. Then I sang some nursery rhymes, like Pat-a-cake and London Bridge and Jack Sprat, and then I just repeated those few songs over, because I didn't know anymore. 

Eventually, the cracks in the walls got so high that I couldn't reach them anymore- not even standing on top of the two emptied chests, and three empty crates that I had taken the dishware and rags and some food items out of. But those ones were so high up that I thought Pa wouldn't notice the lines- hopefully they just wouldn't chill the house too much.

Even though I had spent the whole day at work, Pa was angry when I came in. He was upset that dinner hadn't been started, or a pot of water put on for coffee that day. I rushed to do as he said, but froze when he saw how dirty I was from the mud patching and ordered me to undress and wash up.

I finished stoking the fire before answering- he hadn't added any of the wood to it all day long, and it took a lot of effort to save the dying embers. Once it was ablaze, though, the room seemed to warm more quickly than the day before.

Finally, once the pot was on and I had tended to my rather serious burn from trying to start the potato cakes cooking, I worked up the will to turn and face him. "Uh, Pa..."

He stared at me for just half a moment before snapping. "Well, out with it, girl!"

I swallowed hard, trying to rid my throat of the lump. "I can't undo my dress."

Pa sighed. "Of course you can't."

He motioned for me to come over to him, and I did so, turning so he could undo the buttons of my dress. Having my back to him made me weary, as I would not see a blow coming- but I needed my dress undone if I was to get clean. It had been stuck on me since Ma died.

Pa was quick and rushed about it, his fingers harshly pulling away at the buttons. I hoped he was not being so rough as to loosen one of them- I was not nearly as good at mending as Ma had been, and I rather liked having the dress the same way that she had made it to begin with.

When I was undressed, I quietly thanked Pa. Shrugging off my dress, I went to take the boiling pot of water off the fire- remembering to use the rag this time, so as to not burn myself- and served him his coffee and potato cakes before retreating behind him. There was nowhere truly private in this place- no walls on the inside of the cabin, no doors or curtains up. So I just pulled my pitcher and washbasin from my trunk and stripped off my underwear and petticoat and stockings to thoroughly wash myself for the first time since Ma had died. 

I rummaged further through my trunk and found my little handmirror- it had been Ma's, but when she had died, I had supposed it belonged to me. Staring at myself in it, I decided I did not look so beautiful as Ma had. My hair was plain and brown and straight- hers had been a beautiful gold, with locks that curled just perfectly. Staring at myself in the mirror, it was so easy to see how very different I looked from Ma. Her eyes had been blue- mine were brown. Her skin had been completely clear of freckles. She had a beautiful, perfect smile- I was missing a tooth, and another was only half-grown in. 

Ma was truly gone- there wasn't even the slightest reflection of her to live on through me. The thought disturbed me so much that I buried the mirror back in my trunk, and then reached for my nightgown and cap. Now that the holes were patched up and the cabin was almost-warm, I could finally sleep in actual nightclothes again.

It was still sad to do up the collar buttons of the nightgown myself, though. And to tie the nightcap around my own chin. Last time I had worn this, Ma had done those things for me, because most often I tied it so poorly that it came undone, or so well that it knotted. She had brushed my hair, as well, and washed my face. She had sang the Lavenders Blue Dilly Dilly song to me before I went to sleep.

Though I did refuse to take out the mirror again, I reached for Ma's brush- she had used it on both my hair and hers, and there were still a few long, golden strands stuck to it. I gently pulled them out. 

A little bit of Ma. A bit of proof that, once, I had the greatest Ma to ever live.

Reaching far, far into the chest, I felt around until I found it- glass wrapped carefully in cloth. Pulling out Ma's jewelry box, filled with her most precious belongings, I placed the strands of hair inside and closed the lid. Then I hid the jewelry box again- though I liked to think that one day I would have a bedside table to lay my Mother's things on to look at every night, I knew that would never happen. If Pa saw Ma's jewelry box, he would sell it. Anything for whiskey.

But not me. For me it was the other way around- anything for Ma. Anything to hold on to her memory. 

And, as if to prove a point, I brushed my hair thoroughly- despite all the gnarled tangles from allowing it to become so unkept. I brushed and brushed and brushed until my scalp burned, but finally, my hair was as Ma would have wanted. Then I scrubbed my face some more, even though it was already clean. Then my hands. Then I tucked myself into my stool-bed, and ran a gentle finger down my own cheek- just as Ma had done- and I hummed my Ma's lullaby to myself until Pa shouted at me to stop.

But I was still singing inside my head. And I didn't care how naughty that was.