In the book I’m working on next, Anise Fish’s mother died at her birth leaving an unresolved loss both in Anise Fish (which she fills, unusually) and in her father. I’m ordering the very splurgy first draft and found this passage of writing. The father spoken of here is Anise’s father although Colin’s Dad is mentioned at the start. (Note, this is an unedited splurge)
“Your mother was everything that was pure.”
Anise Fish nodded and nodded but Colin’s Dad wondered if it was true. In everyone- no exceptions – was a chink of darkness or an article of obstruction, stubbonness, pride. What were the foibles of Mother Fish? But this story, this particular tale, was the story they both needed to hear. This was the story that would be left in the library of their lives, and in their minds when libraries were gone and in the chemical traces of their bodies when their minds left them behind, and in their bones or the fire of their cremations at their last times. The story that said she was good and brave and true, joy embodied.
It was important that there was someone there to say, “this is who she was”, when so much of her life was not lived and they were there to keep on living, or – in the case of the father – breathing, somehow, standing in the stream of moments that came at him relentless. Her father’s grandfather had been a pastor, imbued with the wonder of living, this great life, chrysalis in the hands, butterfly in the bushes, the pale green shoots of April on the black branches forming, his grandfather showed him when he was young, very young, for the grandfather had moved along to death when he could barely remember. But these things he remembered, tadpoles in their universes, waiting to be freed, frogs croaking in damp ditches and leaping out of ponds, the sun sliding round an arc in the sky everyday and burning itself out at night, then round again in the mornings, dew and hares on the lawn, his grandfather bristle cheeked and linen clad, standing side to side, his old twisted fingers pointing, pointing at all these bare wonders. And in the warm happy cheek of Anise’s mother he had found that same wonder, that same joy, chased it liked the butterflies in his grandfather’s garden. She had brought all of it back.