A Symphony of Cicadas by Crissi Langwell Read Free Book Online

body was clothed in her usual painting smock over a pair of flowing pants, and she held a paintbrush in her right hand. I was so relieved to see someone familiar that I rushed over to embrace her, almost knocking her off her feet. It surprised both of us when I burst into tears, and I buried my face into her neck to try and stop the watery flow of emotion.
    “Oh, my dear,” Rose crooned. “There, there. It’s all going to be okay .” She pet my hair as I shook, her compassion opening the floodgates. Free to let my guard down, I stopped fighting against my fear and sadness, and allowed myself a good, ug ly cry on her shoulder. She didn’t try to stop me, on ly murmured comforting words while I let out all that had been bottled up since the moment I found myself in this new existence.
    When I was able to come up for halting breaths of air, I pulled away and swiped at the tears in my eyes. She offered me the hem of her smock as if I were a little child. I was grateful and wiped my face on it, rubbing at my nose with an embarrassed chuckle.
    “Now then, feel better, darling?  You’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you?” she asked. I nodded, my momentary good cheer replaced by sullenness as I fed off her maternal sympathy. “Well, let me get a look at you .” She stepped back and nodded in approval. “Oh darling, you are a vision!” she exclaimed. “You’ve become quite the young lady, haven’t you?” I looked down at my body, taking in the damage from the crash and the fire, touching my matted hair with my hand to try and smooth out the tangles.
    “Oh, Aunt Rose, I’m a mess,” I said. “And I’m not so young anymore, I’m thirty-five.”
    “Posh,” she countered, taking my hand in hers to stop me from smoothing my hair. “You’re on ly a baby. Thirty-five?  Darling, you’ve hard ly lived!”
    She took her paintbrush and smoothed it at my hair, brushing it with gentle strokes before moving to my clothes. I touched my hair once again, surprised at its sudden softness, looking at the ends of the golden brown fullness it now possessed. I watched as she transformed my torn clothing into a light blue sundress that fit me snug just above my waist before falling around my hips. On my feet she painted a pair of gold-colored sandals that wrapped around my ankles and calves like those of a Roman goddess.
    “I’ll have to teach you how to do a better job of healing yourself,” she said with sympathy as she stroked my skin with the brush, all the cuts and bruises disappearing under her touch. Then she stepped back to admire her work, letting out a low whistle. “Oh darling, you’re what they’d call a knockout!” she exclaimed .
    I giggled with both pride and shyness, checking out her handiwork. Holding my hands out and noticing all the details she’d created with a mere flick of her brush, I couldn’t help but agree with her assessment. My skin glowed under the morning sun, glistening as if still damp from the rains. I could feel my hair brushing across my back, and I shook my head to feel the new fullness. My nails were shaped in pink and white half-moon crescents, a far cry from the blackened stubs they had been just moments earlier. My feet were no longer covered in mud , caressed now by the new sandals that protected them from the elements. I felt beautiful, appreciating my new form with vanity, admiring the perfection it had become.
    “Oh, thank you, Aunt Rose,” I said, throwing my arms around her once again. “You’ve made me beautiful .” She laughed and shook her head.
    “Darling, you did that on your own. I just revealed it for you,” she told me, tapping her brush against my forehead.
    “But the brush,” I said. “You did something magic with it!”
    “No darling, this brush has no magic in it at all.” She handed it to me for proof, and I swiped at the air on ly to have nothing happen. “Rachel, the magic is nothing more than our spirit released from our earth ly bodies.