Through The Flames; Prologue She was always busy. Mother would always be cooking, cleaning, or sewing. All the while she would hum or whistle or sing. She had such a lovely, loving way about her. I can remember her gentle touch as she bandaged a countless number of scrapes or cuts, her bright eyes and eager laugh. Mother always took care of us, loved us unconditionally as a mother should. Even through her kindness though, we could sense her fire. We've only truly experienced it in dire situations, or when we were being particularly disorderly. Her jaw would set, her eyes would darken, and she would narrow her eyes at you in a way that surely would have caused a blizzard in Egypt. Her tone would be level, but you could hear the anger rising with every moment. If she was really angry, she would bare her teeth like a wolf, and growl- or roar even. The worst form of physical punishment she dealt, I can remember clearly, was a peach switching. She wouldn't use the big, heavy branches that would bruise- oh no, she cut the long, spindly branches. Across your back and arms they felt like knives, and she set about task of tanning your hide with such vigor you thought the devil himself was lashing you with a flaming whip- punishing you for every wrong you ever committed. For days you would hurt, and on rare occasions the marks would scar. But I think the worst punishment she ever set upon me was nothing at all. There were no lashings. There was no roaring. She didn't slap me, she didn't even speak to me. There was just a look. It wasn't even her usual withering glare. My mother had me by the front of the shirt, and I was afraid this time her peach tree switch would cut right through me. But she just looked at me, and between her eyes and mine were passed the most breathtakingly sorrowful emotions. Shame, grief, despair, behind these were twinges of accusation, and beyond that nothing at all. I fell apart that day. My heart fell, and didn't seem to rise again. Without uttering a sound, my mother released her grip on my shirt and turned away. She seemed to pause, wanted to turn back. But her back stiffened. She straightened, lifted her chin in a regal manner, and walked away. She could have slammed the cabin door, just for the drama of it all. But my mother was not that type of woman. Still, the gentle rap of the door to the frame felt like she closed the door on my #life. I felt as if all the love, all the good and fond memories had faded away to nothing, blown away on the warm southerly breeze. With all the guilt and shame a boy ever felt, I turned away too. I had the pride and stubborn will to fight my tears as hard as I could. But when I heard the cracking sob of my broken mother through an open window, the tears broke free. With my eyesight blurred, I set out on a stumbling path. Had I looked back once I would have seen my mother at the window, crying and praying and holding herself back from running out to stop me. ~The First Glimpse~ ~~