[SONIC GAIL]

I know this is quite long. Please ignore if you don't feel like reading it. This is from the book I am working on "What's Become Of RettaGail". I am trying to finish it up. Feel free to criticize I am welcome to constructive criticism.

There Was a Time

Sometimes, certain objects and places bring images to my mind. I can see her with me. Her dirty blonde hair blowing across her face; eyes…cornflower blue, staring up at the heavens looking for answers. Much as I do today. I have taken up residence in her home; picking up where she left off. They are sparse and blurry images. Images of driving her to the doctor, and stopping along the way for processed meal replacements at Mickey D’s drift through my vision as I drive over familiar paths.
She had sold me her 1984 Grand Marquee at that point. Dad sold it to me for $2000. I managed to make monthly payments of $200 through my career as a drive through girl at Burger King. I can faintly touch the film portraying our time together now.
It’s as if I have lived two lives, maybe more. My first, being a distant memory. A dream. When I describe my first life now, I tend to forget pieces, and without purpose fill in the gaps. These gaps naturally absorb positive filling, so please excuse if my memory does not serve accurately.
My second is now, yesterday, and thirteen years ago. It’s just a long road through my twenties, and on into thirties. Enough of this life now, I am speaking of the first. My first life, when happiness surrounded me, even though poverty & anguish hovered about. A time when money meant nothing to me and ALL I craved was happiness and love. A life of pure sweet innocence was mine.
I do not go to the hunk of rock in the cemetery much. I never understood what makes people feel compelled to do that. “Is it spiritual,” I wonder. It is as if they think her spirit is trapped in the rotting corpse absorbing into the earth. On the occasions I have visited I am overwhelmingly compelled to cry. What is quite peculiar about this is that during the entire viewing, mass and burial not one tear chased the lines of my cheeks. I hated myself for not crying, “What is wrong with me God? Am I uncompassionate for not crying at my own mother’s funeral?” I was just numb. That is it, numb.
I was walking through a dream. This was not real. Family and friends surrounded me sobbing uncontrollably. They were hugging me. People I had not seen for years. They were kind and consoled me, but I think I was more consoling to them. I was prepared for this. In my mind it had already happened six months ago.
She wouldn’t speak to me. I could see her, almost touch her. But she seemed angered. I needed her to come to me and hold me. I needed her to say something. My eyes snapped open. I still have these dreams on occasion. These mostly occur when I sleep light due to a lack of assistance. I always sense anger and disappointment in her demeanor. I long for a sleep filled with dreams of happiness, laughing and good memories. Instead they are dark and full of doom. I see the worst things imaginable and live lives I don’t know, and I am always being chased. I am running as fast as I can and getting nowhere. I am hiding. But I don’t know what from. For quite sometime I could not even remember her face without a picture to arouse her form from the caverns of my mind.
I do remember quite vividly all the mourners. Everyone crowded around in the morning sun. Disbelief and anguish disguised their identities. She was lowered slowly into the three by seven foot rectangular shaped plot. The sweet smell of lilies filed the air. My senses tuned in to the sound of water gently trickling down the nearby stream. Beneath the great oaks of Bryceville is where they laid her body down. I could hear her voice still clinging to the breeze.
Soon after the burial there was a gathering at the ranch. It was about a quarter of a mile down the tracks from her home. All that were there shared their favorite memories of this woman. They said “It is such a tragedy for her to go so young”. They could not say “At least she did not suffer”, for suffer she did. Many wept, and many laughed at stories of the quirky wonderful things she had done here. Me. I walked around in a daze with my head limp upon my fiancés on my shoulder. I quietly observed as the children ran around playing games; just as they would on a holiday gathering. Not really understanding the gravity of the moment. Knowing Retta for quite sometime I would think that she would be happy to see such a celebration following her death. I envisioned her looking down upon us and smiling. After all, a mother of five finds the delightful laughter and bantering of children to be a most pleasant thing.