Sophie and the Rising Sun by Augusta Trobaugh

Author:Augusta Trobaugh [Trobaugh, Augusta]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: Romance, Fiction, General, Historical, Literary, cookie429
ISBN: 9781611940534
Google: ag4Wu8KMfhcC
Publisher: BelleBooks
Published: 2011-10-13T21:00:00+00:00

He propped up his painting of the Crane-Wife on a small, wooden box against the wall and even gathered a few mature stalks of golden dune-grass, which he placed on the floor in front of the painting -almost like a shrine before which he spent long hours in meditation.

It was a time of surprising and profound grief for him. And shame. Shame that the deepest grief in him was not for his father and his brothers, their wives and sons and grandsons, not even for the war— terrible war. But for the loss of those precious hours with Sophie, a loss that was a thousand times more painful than he had ever anticipated. His mind returned over and over to every moment they had spent together on the riverbank, so that in his memory, he walked along a strand of silken thought that occasionally held a perfectly round, luminous pearl. Her face in one, her laughter on another, her pale arms in the morning light, her deep green eyes. And finally, her soul’s hunger for that dome of sky over where the river and the ocean came together.

Finally, without even a flashlight to guide him—for he feared that the beam would be seen by someone—he walked one dark night all the way back to the big live oak tree, to that place where he and Sophie had been together on those glorious Sunday mornings, and there, he sat in Sophie’s chair, trying to draw her presence forth and to wear it on his body like another skin. He fancied that he could breathe her perfume and that somehow the chair still held the warmth of her. So he stayed in her presence until the dawn was coming fast, and he had to hurry to get back to the shack, where he slept deeply and peacefully until almost noon.

Later that day, a breeze lifted out the blanket over the window and allowed the bright light of day to fall upon his sleeping face. He sat up, groggy and a little confused, wondering what time it was and what day it was and what seemed to be calling to him.

Cautiously, he stuck his head out through the blanketed doorway, and the glare of a totally clear day made him rub his eyes and the earth was so hushed and still that he wondered for a moment if his hearing had suddenly gone bad. Like watching a silent movie, he saw the palmetto bushes and the gray-beard moss hanging motionlessly.

And the great crane standing at the base of the largest live oak tree, its white feathers like a mound of sunlit snow against the gnarled shades of moss and old velvet. It turned its head just the least little bit, to gaze at him full in the face.

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