The Sunday Whirl

Nothing mattered more at this moment, than wanting to hear the hummed whisper. It came to Jane at night when she was alone, in bed, trying not to listen to the rattle of wooden shutters bumping against the window glass. The whoosh of hard pounding water from the spring rain seemed to be beating on them, wanting to come inside and cover her. It was a familiar story, told by her grandmother back when she was a child. Whenever Jane visited the farm, her grandmother told stories as she continued cooking. She would check on the lamb roast often, knowing her capability to feed her family. It was only afterwards, when Jane stayed the night, when she would tell other stories to Jane, that Jane was frightened. One story her grandmother told was when she was a child on the farm and the area was flooded by a spring storm. It broke glass in the windows so fiercely that the family had to take refuge in the attic. After reciting the scary stories, she would begin humming to soothe Jane to sleep. Jane never forgot the frightening stories and as an adult, bad storms at night haunted her, and she longed for the soft humming sounds.


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.