There was once a story, beautifully written and told. Though it was now forgotten, only in the memories of those who experienced it such as the old woman who sat staring out my window, drawing her hand across the icy surface. The woman had wrinkles that shadowed the corners of her eyes, the tired eyes of a person who experienced pain and lost. Her mouth sat in a firm straight line. This woman had been though much. The emotionless face she painted told volumes.
This woman was a woman above all was my mother.
The wind blew against the window harshly as I pulled my mother away into the safety of the fire's glow. Her lips twitched at the edges as she pulled away from me. She sat on the love seat, just in front of the fire, clearing her throat. Her voice scratchy as her light brown eyes peeked at me.
"Now, where were we?" she asked, watching the fire dance in front of her as if it told the story we all wondered.
The long forbidden story of the woman and her five husbands.