Mother Knows Best(book 1)

Chapter 55

Why do two colors, put one next to the other, sing?

Pablo Picasso

Dear my, dearest, Lilura,

I have taught him all the colors of the wind

And to him, they sing and grin

His toothless smile still, never thinned.

But I have thought about how long it has been.

Yet again, I believe you are alive. So I'll write.

I truly wish you were here.

Today, he turned into a bear cub.

In the lake, he jumped and up with a big fish.

And out of that, we made a tasty grub.

He is eating as well as you would wish.

Do you live or has the fire devoured you?

Unanswered thoughts, so I can only wish you were here.

He has grown taller, he is a bit bigger and stronger.

His wings, oh those magical things.

Out from them, a golden blur

He surely has the biggest and best of wings!

I know you'd enjoy it, so I drew them for you.

I still very much wish you were here.

I have taught him numbers! Words! And more words!

I have read his books and books!

And to all of his actions, I have kept records!

He is growing in knowledge, love, and looks!

You may be annoyed, it is my third saying.

But I wish you were here though-----

               Wyatt's hand trembled. Stretches of wobbly lines of ink down the sheet testified to it. Wyatt had his back against the damp wood of chair. His body was aching, face flushing with fever. His lips, which were a soft blur of pink, were now dry. They parted weakly, breath quivering in short, quick gasps. He ate nothing but watery soups and thin slabs of meat--which lasted not as it spewed out of his guts minutes later. Wyatt was sick, but he wrote still. He needed to write. Without writing to her, he was nothing. Without telling all that she has missed, he was nothing. Without her, he felt like nothing. He was a wolf without its companion. He had lost almost all.

                 He was worsening. His belly contracted violently, partially digested chunks spewed out of his mouth and splattered against the bottom of his new letter to her. He turned to his side, facing away from the wooden table and heaved again. The chunks tumbled out, some falling, some somersaulting, and others dancing out of him. His face was paler than pale, lips dripping bile, and sweat glistening. He lurched forward, sinking to his knees and retched more. The floor around him was a puddle of half-eaten dinners of all sorts. Wyatt's throat burned badly, he tried to get up but fell limply to the ground.

    Eudora quickly came to the door. "My God! Wyatt!" Eudora screamed.

             "H..Help me..! I have to go get her."

          "She died in the fire, Wyatt! You must let this go! You are throwing your belly out. You must take care of yourself as well! You hardly could enjoy the day today! All you do is write and write and write! You write as though your life depends on it! You write as though you can't live without writing! Why are you writing to a person who is not alive!"

            "Such a woman as her can not die in that manner! Lilura can't be dead! At least not because of a fire! I know she isn't dead! I just know it! She is the best of wives and the best of mothers! She is not dead yet. And I will find her I swear to it."

     "Right," Eudora muttered doubtfully. "But first...get some healing please!"

          Wyatt bit his bottom lip. "Fine. I have no other choice right now," he sighed, allowing her to lift him up. "Where is Ekon? Has he eaten again? Is he resting?"

             Eudora frowned and placed his arm around her shoulder. She pulled him up from the ground as his body fell limply against hers. She could not understand why he cared so much for a child that was not his own. She couldn't understand what drew his heart to be like this. He was foolish. Lilura was dead, she ought to be. And if she were not, there was no way she'd be returning.

           Eudora stared at him for a few minutes, her thoughts bubbling over. She then sighed deeply. "Something possesses your soul. Something strong indeed."

       "Whatever it is, I am not complaining," Wyatt murmured.