The Invention of Wings: With Notes by Sue Monk Kidd Page B

and dropped it into the ash bin by the fire, where it disappeared beneath the gray and white soot.

    The following day, the withdrawing room was cleared for mother’s lying-in. She’d birthed her last six children there, surrounded by Binah, Aunt-Sister, Dr. Geddings, a hired wet nurse, and two female cousins. It seemed unlikely she would grant me a visit, but a week before her labor began, she allowed me in to see her.
    It was a frosty morning in February. The sky was bunched with winter clouds, and the fireplaces throughout the house crackled and hissed. In the withdrawing room, the fire provided the only light. Mother, who was a week from her fortieth birthday, was sprawled on her Récamier,
looking perfectly miserable.
    “I hope you have no trouble to speak of, for I have no strength to deal with it,” she said through swollen lips.
    “. . . . . . I have a request.”
    She raised herself slightly and reached for her cup on the tea table. “Well then, what is it? What is this request that cannot wait?”
    I’d come prepared with a speech, feeling resolute, but now my head swam with anxiety. I closed my eyes and wondered how I could make her understand.
    “. . . . . . I’m afraid you’ll refuse me without thought.”
    “For heaven’s sake, why should I do that?”
    “. . . . . . Because my wish is out of the ordinary. . . . . . I wish to be godmother to the new baby.”
    “Well, you’re correct—it’s out of the ordinary. It’s also out of the question.”
    I’d expected this. I knelt beside her. “. . . . . . Mother, if I have to beg, I will . . . I’ve lost everything precious to me. What I thought to be the purpose of my life, my hope for an education, books, Thomas . . . Even Father seems lost to me now . . . Don’t deny me this, please.”
    “But Sarah, the baby’s godmother? Of all things. It’s not some frippery. The religious welfare of the child would be in your hands. You’re twelve. What would people say?”
    “. . . I’ll make
the child
the purpose of my life . . . You said I must give up ambition . . . Surely the love and care of a child is something you can sanction . . . Please, if you love me—” Lowering my head to her lap, I cried the tears I’d not been able to cry the night of Thomas’ farewell or since.
    Her hand cupped the back of my head, and when I finally composed myself, I saw that her eyes were moist. “All right then. You’ll be the baby’s godmother, but see to it you do not fail him.” I kissed her hand and slipped from the room, feeling, oddly, that I’d reclaimed a lost part of myself.

Handful
    I twined red thread round the trunk of the spreading tree till every last bit had come off the spool. Mauma watched. It was all me and my idea to make us a spirit tree like her mauma had made, and I could tell she was just humoring. She clutched her elbows and blew fog with her breath. She said, “You ’bout got it? It’s cold as the blue moon out here.”
    It was cold as Charleston could get. Sleet on the windows, blankets on the horses, Sabe and Prince chopping firewood daylight to dark. I gave mauma a look and spread my red-and-black quilt on the ground. It made a bright spot laying under the bare limbs.
    I said, “First, we got to kneel on this and give our spirits to the tree. I want us to do it the way you said granny-mauma did.”
    She said, “Awright, let’s do it then.”
    We dropped on our knees and stared at the tree trunk with our coat sleeves touching. The ground was hard-caked, covered with acorns, and the cold seeped through the squares and triangles. A quietness came down on us, and I closed my eyes. Inside my coat pocket, my fingertips stroked Miss Sarah’s silver button. It felt like a lump of ice. I’d plucked it from the ash can after she cast it off. I felt bad she had to give up her plan, but that didn’t mean you throw out a perfect good button.
    Mauma shifted her knees on the quilt. She