The sky shone orange-red like the color of the clusters of gem-like arils that sit inside the spongy wall of pomegranates. The slivers of sunlight they left behind, the few that cut through the trees by the stump would soon be turning to lavender grey. Alma wished she could have stayed behind to see it.

But they were already running late, later than they’d promised Gramma. So Alma and Grandaddy hurried. As quietly as they could, they marched on the narrow path. Soon it would be too dark to see.

Where did all the hours go? They’d promised Gramma they’d watch the sunset by the bluff. Together. They had tried to return on time.

Alma glanced at her wristwatch and sighed, exhausted but happy. What a loaded day she and Grandaddy had spent today. Surely Gramma would understand.

Back there, when Grandaddy grinned and suggested, “Let’s rest our bones here,” she nodded and said okay. She didn’t want to tell him that her legs could go no further. How cool the big stump felt, how delicious her last gulp of sweet tea. Her legs recovered while they sat drinking in silence. And how lucky for them.

They were about to get up and continue on the trail when a white-tailed doe appeared through the trees out of nowhere. It made not a sound on the snapping underbrush.

The most extraordinary moment was when the doe turned its long neck and, with its doe eyes, stared right into Alma’s surprised eyes. It was the first time that had ever happened to her.

She will never forget those huge brown eyes, unblinking, captivating her so, or how the sunlight caught its ears, turning them a transparent pink.

Then, just when Alma was thinking how that was the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen, a dainty fawn meandered into plain view. It’s fuzzy fur haloed golden.

Turning her head ever so slightly, Alma sought out Grandaddy’s eyes to make sure he was her witness of the beauty before her. His eyes met hers, and he winked.

And then, when she returned her gaze to the fawn, it did something incredible. It patted the underbrush as if testing new pointe shoes. Then as if convinced they were a perfect fit, it folded its delicate front legs, then its hind, and sank to the ground like a ballerina.

Alma had to blink a few times to ensure it was still there as the little creature seemed to meld into the undergrowth.

Surely Gramma would understand why they ended up sitting for much too long, why they couldn’t keep their promise. Surely she would.

***
© 2021 selmamartin.com

The Pronunciation for HIRAETH is something like HEER-eye-th with a
rolled “r” the “th” barely a whisper.

The Meaning, as per a dear friend of mine:  Hiraeth is a word from
the Welsh language that has no exact equivalent in English. 

It refers to a kind of nostalgia, similar to homesickness, but somewhat
more complex; akin to the German Sehnsucht and the Portuguese Saudade.

It evokes the longing for a home you may never be able to return to,
and the connection with the loved ones you left behind; or, perhaps,
the longing for a place that never existed, the tribe that you haven’t
found yet…

Subtle Nostalgia in Yesteryears.

"Your fabulous post can be anything – poetry, prose, a drawing, a photograph,
wherever the word hiraeth sends you.

Compose a post on your interpretation of “hiraeth” and go wild.
You know the rules. Use #RagtagDailyPrompt #RDP or #Photography as tags.
Pingback your posts to this page or copy-paste your links in this posts
comment thread. And while you’re around, browse through the thoughts and
ideas of the posts other bloggers have created." Ragtag Community.

*** 
(hope I’m not too late)
The word sent me to the time I spent with my grandparents. We never came
across any does, but I always expected we might. And so this one is imagined.

So extraordinary, it feels like a fantasy — Thank you, Ragtag Community.
Photo: Image by Christine Engelhardt from Pixabay
Image by D Mz from Pixabay 
Thanks for reading. I wish you miracles.

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Selma Martin

I’m a simple woman who dares to see the beauty in ordinary. I’d love to connect with you and like pen pals, I want something beautiful to blossom between us. Will you join me? Selma is my middle name. Its meaning—peaceful, complete, are euphoric affirmations I like to think of myself as having. They compliment the joy I feel when I write. I sincerely hope you decide to join me on my writing journey. I Wish You Miracles.

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