Bare feet on frost

Morning memories.

Bare feet on a frost covered lawn. I’m thrilled by the intensity of sensation. Brittle blades of grass and ice gently spike into my tender soles, brief pain of their resistance followed by the satisfying crunch as they crack under my weight. A trail of perfect melted footsteps follows me from the kitchen door to the woodpile, and I load up, shaking each piece of stringybark to dislodge the hiding huntsmen spiders. The smells of morning permeate; wood-smoke, toast, tea.

Chill numbs my toes; I retreat to the warmth of home, family.

100 word fiction

Feeling homesick for family in today’s Friday Fictioneers, so this 100 words is almost straight from my memory. It could describe any of hundreds of winter mornings when I was sent out as a child to get wood for the fireplace. Click here to check out the other stories.

I’m not sure this is even a story, as I can’t really see a defined beginning, middle, end.  I don’t care, writing this was cathartic.

I got the unfortunate news that my Grandmother died late last night (83), liver failure resulting from cancer. There was not long between learning about the extent of the cancer and her death – a week perhaps – so I hadn’t really found time to prepare myself. I got the message right after hitting publish on last night’s post.

I thought hard about whether I wanted to write this, write anything at all, but I actually feel better for getting these words down.

Ma, you will be missed.

My Grandmother “Ma” (Fay) & my Daughter Lillian (photo August 2014)




31 thoughts on “Bare feet on frost

  1. KT,
    You certainly do have a beginning, middle and end. (Other Fictioneers can attest that I will let you know if you don’t.) While there isn’t a lot of action here, the story is tender and to the point–it’s a memory colored in hoarfrost.

    So sorry to hear about your grandmother’s passing. May she rest in peace, her friends and family be consoled. May perpetual light shine upon her, and may you keep her memory alive in this world with the stories you tell.

    Sent with eHUGS,

    Marie Gail

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I think sometimes we pack just too much into our stories.. I like that you focused on that single sensation of going barefoot in the frosty grass.. there are associations that run in my head from your words that creating something of the big why.. why walk barefoot in the frost.. hmm.. so sorry for your loss.. and I could really understand you hesitating… but I still think this might be the best way to cope.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I’m sorry about your grandma, your story is such a beautiful tribute to family and to her. I grew up in a house that relied on wood heat, so the story really hit home for me. Nearly brought a tear to my eye, which is weird because it takes so much hard work to keep wood stoves going, but it’s so nostalgic and wonderful looking back on it all.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Praying comfort for all of you on your grandma’s death. Your story is heart-warming to me because memories of this sort are so precious, even while all the people involved are still alive. We tend to only hear bad stories, terrible memories, heinous crimes. But this small, lovely moments are the ones on which our hearts and minds rely.


    Liked by 1 person

  5. Sorry to hear your sad news – what a lovely happy picture to remember her by. I enjoyed your story – lots of very vivid descriptions and I love how you included unusual senses to take us away from sight.
    If I had one suggestion, it would be to cut down on the adjectives a little bit – rather than having one for every single noun. But I wouldn’t cut too many of them; the descriptions are the really strength of this piece.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Beautiful images with this piece of writing. I loved reading it. I am very sorry about the passing of your grandmother and I wish you and your family much comfort and happy memories. The picture of her and your daughter is wonderful. Two beautiful girls.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Dear KT,

    You were right to write…your story, vignette, memory…I don’t care what you call it, was beautiful and evocative and lets us into your world and mind and heart in a way few, other than writers, will ever understand. Thank you.

    You are right that we are your family. i have come to love your work and by extension, politely and honestly, you. I grieve for you and wish that there was something I could do to assuage your loss. There is only the certainty that ‘Ma’ will live on in your heart and in your writing and in the bright, smiling eyes of your beautiful daughter, Lillian.

    May you find peace in the knowledge that you are significant, you mean something to me and others here and that you are loved.

    All my best.



    Liked by 3 people

  8. So sorry for your loss. Even before reading about your grandma’s death I felt this had a beautiful contrast between the cold outside and the warmth of family and home.
    I never knew my grandmothers, both of them died before I was born but I am so glad that my children have such lovely, warm memories of their Nanna, my late mother.

    Liked by 1 person

  9. I thought your post/story was beautiful and well written. Your description were spot on. I could smell the wood and dampness. A great job awaking the senses. I so sorry for your loss. Grandparents play such a pivotal role in our lives, I know you will miss her. My sincerest condolences.

    Liked by 1 person

  10. So sad about your grandmother, solely based on this piece itself and the way you talk about her seems that she was greatly loved.
    This is beautiful! Awesome description, it made literally feel like I was walking on frosted grass myself. Great work!

    Liked by 1 person

  11. I like the melted footsteps that followed you into the kitchen. Beautiful writing, KT. This is such a lovely piece. Sometimes writing can be just the thing we need. I’m so sorry for your loss. What a beautiful daughter you have.

    Liked by 1 person

  12. Lovely. My toes curled in sympathy for your toes in all that frost, then spread to feel the chill sensation it might bring. This is a lovely “toast” to your grandmother. And ditto what Doug said. We fictioneers become a family of sorts and seem to be there when sharing is needed. Sometimes the written word is the only way to get over horrendous obstacles.

    Liked by 1 person

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