Pastor Carter often said that in order to be reborn, one had to first lose everything.
This was his mantra. His poetry spoken in the lovely lilt of a well-rehearsed southern accent. Pastor Carter was a firm believer in the idea that out of despair, beauty could blossom.
My mother subscribed to this fundamental pillar of her hard won
faith with the devotion of a fanatic. And being her daughter—nurtured into placid obedience—I believed as well.
Because we both had learned many years ago that you could lose everything in a moment. Whether by choice or by circumstance, it didn’t matter. The loss was the same. One didn’t necessarily tiptoe towards rock bottom. You could crash, head first, into the mouth of hell itself in three seconds flat.
Those were the lyrics of my mother’s song.
Daphne Bishop splashed in puddles of tragedy. She clutched it to her chest with bloodied fingers. An orphan in and out of the foster system, she teetered on the edges of madness until she suffered a breakdown at the age of eighteen.
But it hadn’t ruined her.
It would take the heavy handed grip of God to devastate her completely.
Institutionalized and alone, she pulled herself together with the help of a care assistant named Dan, fifteen years her senior. They fell in love—though they shouldn’t have—and when Daphne was released at the age of twenty-three, they built a shaky sort of life together.
Pastor Carter said that worlds built on crumbling foundations will eventually crush you. It was one of the many things he was right about.
The tipping point—the moment of absolute and terrifying truth—came and went in the span of thirty minutes. That’s all it took for my life to change. For my mother’s entire universe to flip inside out.
For the hard, unyielding floor at rock bottom to greet us with open arms.
It played like a movie in my mind during the dead of night. Strong, masculine shoulders, weighed down by my mother’s fluctuating moods. His bowed yet resolute back as he walked out the door and out of our lives. For good.
But that was then. A past meant to be forgotten. Embracing the present, preparing for the future—that was the only way to live.
I opened my eyes, alert and awake without the dizzy fog of interrupted dreams. I could hear my mother moving around in our tiny, one room home. Her footsteps muffled. Her movements careful and controlled.
I didn’t linger under the sheets.
Blessed is the morning God has made, I thought silently as I put my feet on the floor and got out of bed, making sure to be as quiet as possible. No sound escaped my lips. It was still dark. The early morning air cold on my bare legs, the thin material of my nightdress tickling my skin.
Mom was just as quiet. Both of us having been conditioned to maintain total muteness during the Sun’s Morning Blessing. She had already dressed. She was usually awake an hour before I was. Her internal clock set to the rooster crow. She smiled at me, little more than a brief movement of her lips before they pressed into a neutral expression once again.
Daphne Bishop was a beautiful woman, even after everything life had thrown at her. I had inherited very little of what made her so attractive, instead taking after the man I had barely known. With thick, unruly blonde hair that could only be managed by pulling it back away from my face, I couldn’t be described as conventionally pretty—if those things mattered. Interesting perhaps, if the person was feeling generous. My eyes were, in my opinion, too wide for my face. They were a fierce, rather aggressive green that would have been nice if not for the almost pigment free spot in the left iris that instead made my gaze off-putting. Few people met my stare head on. I wished it didn’t make me sad. Some obstacles were harder than others to overcome, I had learned.
Mom picked up my thick, woolen sweater and handed it to me, indicating I was to wear it. It was early June, but still cold in the mountains. We were experiencing a late chill in these early summer months.
I quickly threaded my arms through the red and white sleeves. I was particularly fond of this sweater, having knitted it two winters ago. Once fully dressed, I followed my mother out of the house and into the still morning.
We joined a group of equally silent men, women, and children, all walking with slow and steady purpose towards the break in the tree line that I could barely see in the dim light, but knew with practiced familiarity.
A hand brushed mine before sliding away. I glanced at Anne Landes, my best friend. We fell into step beside each other as we had done every morning since she arrived with her father four years ago.
I loved this time of day. The silence. The weary nighttime just before it gave way to the constant steadiness of light.
My feet crunched on fallen leaves. My toes curled in the chill. The thin slippers doing little to protect them. They throbbed with a constant ache I was used to.
Too cold. I shivered in my sweater, in my thin, linen skirt. My freezing, throbbing feet.
No choice.
The sun was waiting.
It was always waiting.
