Raise Hell - Dorothy
Vida was always more than a bit of a wild card. Her parents didn't quite know when it started, but she could distinctly remember them telling her: Child, you've got a fire in you. A fire that burns so bright, nothing can extinguish it. Anyone that tries, you leave them with nothing but a trail of smoke. You hear?
Memories of both her parents were like black and white, so far off the spectrum of each other that she couldn't quite place how the two had collided to become a perfect shade of grey. Fuzzy, warm, blurred at the edges in their co-existence that Vida didn't believe anything could come between them.
Her mama was a flower child that always smelled of sage, lavender and an intoxicating hint of marijuana. She loved fluorescent, bright colors and every room was filled with so many lively plants that you'd think they'd been raised in a jungle. The Cherry Bomb always envied her mama's green thumb, the way she could speak to the plants in their own language and somehow know what they needed. She could walk past any flower and name it by it's scientific name, which seasons it grew best and when was the perfect time to plant them. It was like her mama had never quite grown out of the 70's.
She could distinctly remember dancing about the living room with her mother growing up, wailing the lyrics to Lynard Skynard, Zeppelin and Queen among the dozens of records her mother cherished more than her soul. Songs are souls written on paper, Vida Mae. Every lyric speaks a story in time, as menial and insignificant as they may seem. It's a soul flower blooming bright among the fog. Listen to their souls, baby. Let them thrive in your heart and sing them as if you'll never hear another soul again. She never knew if her mother was speaking through the marijuana or not, but she hung onto every word as if it would be her last.
It took the Wild Child a long time to figure out her daddy. Her mama didn't talk much about the kind of man she was, not in a literal sense. He's a good man, baby. He takes care of us. He does what he needs to put food in our mouths. Don't ever let a man's actions dictate a man's soul. Your daddy's as good a man you'll ever find. With those words fresh in her mind, she ignored the fact that daddy always kept a pistol for reasons he never talked about tucked into his trousers. Why he came home so late at night, sometimes with blood on his hands or phone calls that made him leave the dinner table and walk out the door at the worst times.
Those times that Vida held so tightly to, moments where she managed to get a few hours alone with her daddy, they'd go hit the town in his old clunker of a Cadillac. She remembered sticking her hand out of the window, letting the wind swirl and assault her fingers and palm as he sped down the streets. The way her hair would whip about her face and lash against her cheeks violently, but she didn't care. Because her daddy was sitting in that driver's seat and belting out old Aerosmith. He was a terrible singer, he couldn't hit a note on the head even if he had bumpers to guide him to the target. But his voice was her favorite, even if she did question if one day he might actually make her ears start pouring out blood.
Her mama was a gentle soul, and her daddy was a wild fire. Parts of her took to both, but it was her daddy's blood that was far more prominent. You're just like your daddy, Vida Mae. You look like him, act like him. And though most would assume that was a bad thing, her mama always wore the brightest smile that nearly cracked her face in two when she told her daughter that.
Now, 19 years old and she carries her daddy's gun and drives his old beat up Caddy like they're the only remnants left of him. As if he could still live through her as long as she kept that engine running and the cylinder of that revolver loaded.
And the only thing that keeps running through her mind like a marathon are those words her mama told her all those years ago.
Anyone tries to put out your fire, baby, you leave them with a trail of smoke.
Vida was always more than a bit of a wild card. Her parents didn't quite know when it started, but she could distinctly remember them telling her: Child, you've got a fire in you. A fire that burns so bright, nothing can extinguish it. Anyone that tries, you leave them with nothing but a trail of smoke. You hear?
Memories of both her parents were like black and white, so far off the spectrum of each other that she couldn't quite place how the two had collided to become a perfect shade of grey. Fuzzy, warm, blurred at the edges in their co-existence that Vida didn't believe anything could come between them.
Her mama was a flower child that always smelled of sage, lavender and an intoxicating hint of marijuana. She loved fluorescent, bright colors and every room was filled with so many lively plants that you'd think they'd been raised in a jungle. The Cherry Bomb always envied her mama's green thumb, the way she could speak to the plants in their own language and somehow know what they needed. She could walk past any flower and name it by it's scientific name, which seasons it grew best and when was the perfect time to plant them. It was like her mama had never quite grown out of the 70's.
She could distinctly remember dancing about the living room with her mother growing up, wailing the lyrics to Lynard Skynard, Zeppelin and Queen among the dozens of records her mother cherished more than her soul. Songs are souls written on paper, Vida Mae. Every lyric speaks a story in time, as menial and insignificant as they may seem. It's a soul flower blooming bright among the fog. Listen to their souls, baby. Let them thrive in your heart and sing them as if you'll never hear another soul again. She never knew if her mother was speaking through the marijuana or not, but she hung onto every word as if it would be her last.
It took the Wild Child a long time to figure out her daddy. Her mama didn't talk much about the kind of man she was, not in a literal sense. He's a good man, baby. He takes care of us. He does what he needs to put food in our mouths. Don't ever let a man's actions dictate a man's soul. Your daddy's as good a man you'll ever find. With those words fresh in her mind, she ignored the fact that daddy always kept a pistol for reasons he never talked about tucked into his trousers. Why he came home so late at night, sometimes with blood on his hands or phone calls that made him leave the dinner table and walk out the door at the worst times.
Those times that Vida held so tightly to, moments where she managed to get a few hours alone with her daddy, they'd go hit the town in his old clunker of a Cadillac. She remembered sticking her hand out of the window, letting the wind swirl and assault her fingers and palm as he sped down the streets. The way her hair would whip about her face and lash against her cheeks violently, but she didn't care. Because her daddy was sitting in that driver's seat and belting out old Aerosmith. He was a terrible singer, he couldn't hit a note on the head even if he had bumpers to guide him to the target. But his voice was her favorite, even if she did question if one day he might actually make her ears start pouring out blood.
Her mama was a gentle soul, and her daddy was a wild fire. Parts of her took to both, but it was her daddy's blood that was far more prominent. You're just like your daddy, Vida Mae. You look like him, act like him. And though most would assume that was a bad thing, her mama always wore the brightest smile that nearly cracked her face in two when she told her daughter that.
Now, 19 years old and she carries her daddy's gun and drives his old beat up Caddy like they're the only remnants left of him. As if he could still live through her as long as she kept that engine running and the cylinder of that revolver loaded.
And the only thing that keeps running through her mind like a marathon are those words her mama told her all those years ago.
Anyone tries to put out your fire, baby, you leave them with a trail of smoke.