Two to Write: Night's Final Hour: A Mother's Day Special

The following is a special post for Mother's Day. The next chapter of Night's Final Hour will still be published today. This is just a letter from Ivy to Benjamin giving you a glimpse into other characters of the story. Enjoy and Happy Mother's Day.

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Dear Benjamin,

You asked me to tell you about my family. I have a feeling that you may know more about them than I do, but I’ll do my best anyways to satisfy your curiosity. You’ll have to be patient though, as it may take several letters to tell you about them all.

I’ll start with my mother since she is the most immediate family still living. As for her birth, all I can tell you is that she was born many, many years ago (she would yell at me if I shared her age) in Nashville, TN. Unlike my father, she is not a native of Nuitville and would not have come here if it weren’t for my father. Why she remains in town now is beyond me.

My earliest memory of my mother is of her in the kitchen. I couldn’t have been more than three or four at the time. I was walking and talking, but not yet in school. It was a hot, spring day and my mother was preparing a snack in the kitchen – strawberries, I believe. She was chopping the greens off and cutting the juicy parts. I was waiting at the kitchen for my snack.

The knife missed the berry and sliced her finger instead. It wasn’t a large cut, but it was deeper enough to send red oozing out. My mother started to say something, but bit her lip instead when her eyes met mine. She quietly walked to the sink and washed her finger, crinkling her nose as she did. I remember thinking that my mother must be quite a woman to withstand such a cut and not cry. I was young – any cut warranted tears.

Beyond this memory, I’m not sure what to share. My mother is a brave and caring individual who is stuck in her ways and doesn’t like change. She’ll back you in all that you do, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she approves of all that you do. She’s an individual who knows what she wants and goes after it. I’d like to think I’m a lot like my mother, but deep down, I know that I’m barely a thing like her.

Your friend,
Ivy

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