The prompt this was written for:
You have 300 words. The idea of ‘identity’ must be the focus of your submission. You must mention a scent, and a season. You may write about yourself or a fictional character.
I traversed the countryside, crunching snow as my lullaby like my granddaddy’s strumming on his old twelve-string, back when the embers burned low and the shine flowed. Those times were long gone, and so was he. Can’t say I was sorry for the loss. Granddaddy always did have a way of makin’ you regret the nicest things.
The loss of Harlan MacBray was not what saw me from the hospital that night, though. Home was on the wind, sweet pine and woodsmoke to usher me along in the deepening twilight, and I obeyed. Heart heavier than a dead preacher.
Sarah was asleep when I let myself in, even when I stamped my boots on our worn-out rug and fed the fire. She was peaceful, maybe the only time I ever saw her that way. As tender as a judge, my daughter was a hellion, no mistake about it.
She was worse with her mama taking ill, always banging through the house like hell on wheels. ‘Spose she was making up for the silence that filled the halls, trying to give a little comfort like a hurt stitchin’ itself up or an oak growin’ over the ax’s notch. No matter how much she fussed there was nothin for it. Never would be, I reckon. What she really wanted to heal was me.
“Sarah.”
She woke slow but was sharp as a whip to see my face. “What did you hear?”
I shook my head. “Nothin good.”
Her eyes bored into me. “I ain’t a little girl, Pa.”
But all I could see in her face was her mother’s, and then I couldn’t see at all, hot tears spillin down my cheeks.
“Your pa’s a widower, Sarah.”
Granddaddy had been a widower, too.
Misery always did love company.