Purple trails of my sweater sweep across denim legs. Purple that reminds me of plums I loved as a child but never seem to eat as an adult. My mother used to bring home the plums from the grocery store. She must have imagined, as her hand hovered over the fruits, my plump cheeks dripping with juice and the smile of thanks I wore for her.
Much has changed.
Memories of my childhood draw in the countrysides of all the places I once lived. Meadow grasses dancing in lulling waves under the wind's breath. Splintered wood posts threatened to drop the sagging wires held by rusted nails. Beyond it, herds of horses or cows dotted the fields, eating away acres without thought. I still remember their scent as I buried my nose in the manes of ponies and horses, their backs far above my head. Much of my childhood days included hours on the back of a horse—alone, with my sister, my mother, or the three of us together. I lost my own scent beneath the perfume of horses.
Much has changed.
Now my perfume is engineered, bottled in blue. The color of the sky—less visible now through the hurdles of power lines and houses, beyond the noise of passing cars and the memories my children are making. Blue, like my favorite color, a color far more serene than purple. Purple like the color of plums, the color of bruises, the color of my mother's skin when I found her stilled body, the color she wore the last time I saw her face.
Laura Widener is a wife, mother, and coffee addict living in rural Georgia. She holds degrees in Sociology and Human Services, and with the support of her family, is on track to complete her MFA in Writing at Lindenwood University in March 2016. Her previous fiction work can be found in TWJ Magazine and Morpheus Tales.