chanter1944 | orange!verse poem: Trusted Voice

This is being posted for free, just because. Zero warnings, save a little mild imagery of the first aid sort. If anyone recognizes elements of the real Leigh, aspected though she is for this series, or the real Sandy beside her, then... well, I hope my fondness for both of them comes through. Zero disrespect intended to this duo's origins; much love and appreciation, in fact, for the formative effect they had on tiny me.

Summary: Orange!verse, north of the border. You need a couple of passable musicians and a lot of willing hearts. How and why Leigh does what she does. 622 words.

Leigh's in the kitchen
baking bread from scratch,
covering bare arms to the elbows in flour,
spattering an apron printed in violets
in the same.
Leigh's getting kneaded dough
under blunt fingernails,
catching traces in the webbing of her hands,
stickily transferring remnants from an upraised wrist,
to a slipping sleeve,
to the ends of her hair almost in one.

Leigh's washing dishes
and singing at the top of her voice,
a warm second soprano
that's not quite rattling the windows
but is absolutely all but drowning out the faucet,
protest songs and hymns,
ballads and shanties in a tangle of languages;
English and Breton,
Scottish Gallic, Quebecois and Irish.
Leigh's right foot is intermittently tapping time on the linoleum
and her hands are obscured by soap suds.
There are water droplets on her blouse
from the sink's occasional splashed overflow.
She doesn't mind.

Leigh's holding a quickly-gloved palm
to a gash in an American's still mostly-clothed shoulder -
branch, said Jilly, along with a handful of Greek words
that Leigh wouldn't repeat in front of her students
even if someone paid her -
and so what if she's grateful
that nothing's soaking through the gauze pad she's holding?
A proper medic's two minutes off
and getting nearer all the time,
and this man's not in such a terribly bad way,
but not losing blood is not losing blood.

Leigh's outside, kneeling in the garden,
grubbing out the weeds
before putting in the cucumbers.
Leigh's got thoroughly muddy sneakers
and a smudge of dirt on the end of her nose,
the latter of which she doesn't notice for an hour.
"Hold still," says Sandy,
before removing the evidence
with one warmly dry fingertip.
"Hey!" squeaks his wife, but she's chuckling.

Leigh isn't going 5 KPH over the limit,
because she can't get a ticket tonight,
because there's a bag on the passenger's seat
and it's got baby food jars in it
and not much else,
because an adorable little girl named Taisha from Detroit needs dinner,
and darned if they aren't out of string beans.
Leigh wants to do her very best Quinn and floor it,
but doesn't.

Leigh's in a classroom
with a floor that's half carpet, half tile,
teaching little humans
how to, among other important things,
be human to each other.
Even after twenty years,
she's still fairly sure most of them
have at least some idea
of how to do that one already,
but her influence can't hurt, can it?
She dearly hopes not.

Leigh's in the ramshackle barn
near the edge of their property,
watching as twenty people, locals and non,
dance scattered hay into the floorboards.
Sandy's beside her on guitar
and it's too bad there's no accordion player tonight,
but Leigh and her husband can make a barn dance work all on their own,
oh yes they can.
Leigh's known this for ages,
and just as long known the truth behind it:
All you need, really, to make a barn dance,
is a couple of passable musicians -
take your pick which instruments they're playing -
and a lot of willing hearts.
The former they've got,
and the latter's not in question,
not in this crowd,
with Quinn and Céline and Sister and Antoine,
with shellshocked runaways' faces
looking less and less stunned every minute,
with Terry and Carlos and Lise and Squirt
and is that the youngest of the current refugees
learning a few steps of her--sorry, of their own
from Anna?
Willing hearts they've got.

Leigh's at the forefront of willingness, and Sandy beside her,
this close to striking sparks from every string,
tearing up the night
and throwing the devil right back out the door,
lighting every candle,
unlocking every lock.