DUTIFUL DAUGHTER
R
osemary yawns, cupping
her mouth politely,
feeling the contentment
of a suckling babe. As
far back as she can remember,
Rosemary daydreamed of
traveling to exotic islands. Now,
she was stepping into Honolulu
adventures on the big Isle of
Hawaii.
Was it kindergarten? No, first
grade.
Miss Appleton gathered the
class around her straight back
desk chair each morning. As
youngsters settled, she stood
tip-toe and gingerly pulled
Treasure Island from the top
row of her classic’s bookshelf.
Oh, that Billy, I can still hear him,
“Ahoy; mate-ees!”
Regaining focus, she begins to
soak in the sights, sounds and
scents of her surroundings.
Outside, swaying palm trees
beckon moonstruck lovers to
the beach. Rolling waves dash
against jagged rocks and the
aroma of tropical fruits wafts
through her room. She feels a
twinge of guilt.
I should not be here.
Always the dutiful daughter,
she tended her ailing father
following the death of her
mother, the belle of every ball.
Mother’s tales of travel as a
debutante were so realistic
Rosemary had sniffed the salt of
the sea. Now, both parents have
deserted her through death.
What was I thinking?
She pictures the Victorian three-
DOZ Magazine | February 2020
PamFord Davis
story house. There was no one
else to sort through trappings
left behind by a man and
woman born into affluence, yet,
who died penniless. Business
ventures showing promise
ended in failure.
I can deal with that later. I
deserve this frivolity.
The full moon casts a captivating
shadow at the foot of her bed.
Mesmerized, Rosemary wonders
if her future holds romance.
Surely, there must be someone
hungering for companionship as
much as she does.
Am I too late?
Drawing the palm of her hand
across the contours of her oval
face, she traces worry lines.
Ruffling her cropped hair,
she remembers when it was
naturally curly, thick and long. It
is not easy to take stock of your
physical assets.
Could any man find me alluring?
She kicks aside starched linen
sheets, finding it difficult to
breathe in the stifling room;
the spinster fans herself with a
travel brochure.
I hate sweaty nightgowns.
As if present, mother seems to
whisper in her ear
“Ladies do not sweat; we
perspire.”
She reaches for the half-empty
glass of water on the table
and holds it up to her cheek.
Condensation from the cold
water trickles from the outside
of the glass onto her face, and
she sighs with relief.
I should try to get some sleep.
6
Rosemary had often counted
sheep when trying to silence the
voices of anxiety. Tonight would
be different.
I don’t have to punch a time
clock. I’ll stay up a while
Hearing the repetitive clicking
and whirl of the overhead fan,
she gazes above at the ceiling.
The blades of the fan morph
into beating bongo drums and
swaying hula dancers.
Aloha ‘Oe
Slowly, a smile forms as she
imagines trying to squeeze her
middle-aged hips into a flimsy
grass skirt. The phone beside
her rings; startled she reaches to
lift the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Rosie, you okay?”
“Yes, Billy; I’m fine.”
“I stopped by the library a little
before closing time, didn’t see
the car in your parking spot.
I’m worried about you, trying to
work and handle your parent’s
affairs.”
“I left early, decided to take a
few days off to get my head
straight. “
“Rosie, when are you going to
give up and let me take care of
you?”
She ponders his question and
her excuses over the years
“Rosie, did you hear me?”
Surprising herself by the
weakening of her defenses,
she replies, “Yes, William; I’m
listening.”
“William? You haven’t called me
William since your first day as