Nannette’s Creative Writing Class: Student Submission

THE ROOM and SOPHIE ROSE
circa 1950s by Martha France Cannon

“ Come dance with me, sweet girl.”  My great aunt’s soft voice with her dignified southern accent beckons me.  “Let us sway to the melody. We will gently close our eyelids, not to tight, just enough to lose our balance.  We will let the music enter and touch the spirit and the heart.  If the rhythm creates a smile that will be so very splendid.  If burning tears fill your eyes, so amazing that will be.  Marvelously this means music has aroused a sleeping memory and your heart is weeping. Sadness or happiness, these feelings only you will know.  Yes, yes sweet child come dance with me.  My eyes can so longer see, but my toes are tapping to this melodic beat.”

Taking her soft and delicate hands into my own we twirl and whirl around the parlor room.  Her stylishly sheer ankle length dress flows and floats with our movements.  The denim overalls I am wearing and my canvas shoes represent the tomboy that I am.

Girlish giggles echo cheerfully and I snigger at my clumsiness.  Criticism, frustration, disappointment. These words I never hear. Not ever spoken from her expertly outlined scarlet lips.

The music ends.  Laughing-we curtsy quite magnificently.  I turn her in the direction of the French sofa that is upholstered with thick velvet material the color of cream with rose designs.  Red roses of course, it could not be otherwise.

I walk over to the impressive antique gramophone and skillfully lift the spinner arm off the record.  I turn to face her with a smile that will remain forever unseen.  Sadly, liken the bright sun-ray shining through the stained, rose-design, window pane.  Her blurred green eyes see an opaque world, causing her to have only reminiscences of lace curtains catching the beam that form the patterns that become shadows on a Persian rug, aged with the passing of time as is this lovely lady in her distinctive room.

“ Child, come here to me.”  Aunt Sophia motions to me.  The many rings on her  slender fingers sparkling with the movement .  “Hand me the hairbrush.  Sit down in front of me.  Have you become beautiful?  These ole eyes cannot see.  Have you pride and confidence?  You are a mysterious young girl now, but time will march on and one day the mirror will show you all grown up.  A woman of substance you must become, but remember a charming smile with secret eyes are like a huge bank account.  Furtive.”

Is she teasing? I truly do not know.  Heck, I don’t even know what  furtive means.  Just another word she knows I will have to look up in the dictionary .

I put another record on the player and we listen with pleasure.  Aunt Sophie Rose sits very dignified and regal, her eighty-three years to be cherished.  I on the floor at her knees.  She brushes my long auburn hair with a silver hairbrush, then reaches up to her white hair, that is piled in youthful disarray, even now still scattered with faded specks of her once Irish red tresses, and unties a pale green satin ribbon.  She pulls my thick, naturally curly hair together at the nape of my neck and ties the ribbon with a perfect bow.

She waves me toward the floor length parlor mirror.  Gold bangles on her arms clanging.

I look at my image.  I am thirteen years old today.  Am I ready to leave my childhood frolics behind me?  I think not just yet, but this shiny ribbon flowing gracefully onto my shoulders seems pleasing to me.  I like it.

I turn to face this delightful woman that I so adore.

“Yes, my wonderfully eccentric great-Aunt Sophie Rose.  Like you, I am beautiful.”

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