The Story

There were whispers, of course. But that was to be expected.

Her husband’s secretary had last seen him with a young, mysterious, interesting woman.

And when she looked in the mirror, she saw none of those things.

Young? HA. She kissed that adjective goodbye several years ago. She was happy to embrace her silver streaks but was not as grateful when cashiers stopped asking for her license to officiate senior discounts.

Mysterious? No. Not even a single magic trick up her sleeve. She was a firm believer in blunt interactions and the truth of the matter. She wore her feelings and her wealth on her sleeve, and was proud of both. There were no secrets here. Well, none that belonged to her.

Interesting? She’d railed against this one. Her husband always introduced her as the “one with all the good stories” but those stories weren’t hers, she just told them well.

Her family found her interesting. Her daughter-in-law told her once “you’re the most fascinating being I’ve ever met!” in that cute Minnesota accent. Yet she knew that was mostly because the poor gal had never been fed a proper peach cobbler or heard a tale that started with “So we were out listening to the junebugs…”

But Pepper certainly didn’t feel interesting.

And now she had proof she wasn’t. Not even Clark, her husband of multiple decades, found her interesting enough to stick around for. He said he’d be gone a few weeks to clear his head. It was many silent months later when she gave up on his return. Their children were distraught, positive he’d been kidnapped for his wealth in a foreign country, or dramatically lost at sea and was still desperately trying to get back to them. Pepper was never really sure what to do when these hypothesizes were discussed. She didn’t want to dissuade her children from the romantic tragedy of their imaginations, as it would be easier to heal from than the truth, but she also was not going to entertain them as far as sending out cross-country search parties. She knew the actual, real truth. Clark was dead.

She could tell for months before his disappearance that he was getting restless. She had tried to bring in new projects for him to play with- bought a new location for a hotel, redesigned his office, took him on a cruise to Alaska where he could fish for the big salmon like he used to with his father. She’d even started telling her stories again.

He loved her stories. She knew he married her because she was reliable and low-risk, but he fell in love with her over time because of the stories she had begun to tell their children. Each night from the first born to the fourth, she’d tell of the mischievous nymphs and rowdy pirates she’d met to escort their young imaginations into fantasy filled dreams. She told them of their great-aunt who vanquished monsters and could see through time, and their own grandmother who met regularly with kings and queens of other worlds.

One by one, as the children became the teenagers and then adults, they stopped begging for story time after dinner. But Clark never stopped. He would beg for them when their nest was again empty. Even when the grandchildren arrived and all the old stories were told again, he would sit with the smallest in his lap, the same eager expression on both man and child as they listened. He said he loved the sound of Pepper’s voice, and admired her adventurously creative mind. Sometimes when she’d finish a wild tale he’d say “lets do that someday, my love.” And she would laugh, saying Mars or Zeus or Atlantis were too far away, but maybe someday.

She supposed Clark decided someday had come, and he’d left without her. But she knew he’d intended to come back. He’d loved her. He’d respected her. Perhaps he had no longer found their marriage exciting, and run off to have a little affair or steamy vacation, but he would have come back to her if he could. That’s just who Clark was. He wouldn’t have left her on her own like this, to mind the children and run the company. So while others mourned the loss of a good man gone bad, she quietly grieved a great man who was just… gone.

That was why her heart was not just broken, but irreparably shattered. She almost took comfort in knowing it would never heal. It was the hope that one day everything would go back to normal that always killed people. She would never really be okay again. That in itself, was really fine. Deep down, no matter how much they’d loved each other, she always knew he’d leave one day. She just didn’t know it would be because he would go looking for a story of his own. Pepper thought it would be when he realized all of hers were true.

So she put in the life insurance paperwork. She assisted the children through their grief, and showered her grand-babies with love and attention so they would not feel the loss of Papa Clark in the room.

For the next 10 years she devoted her life to creating an empire from the hotel and tourism businesses Clark had built. She played her part in this new timeline, the widowed grandmother with time to babysit the young ones and meet her friends for tea between investor meetings. There were suitors too, of course. They would approach what they saw as a grown woman who knew what she wanted. And they were right, but what she wanted was to be left alone. Her kids and friends alike pushed her to date again. She almost did just to comfort them, but really it held no interest for her. Her broken heart wasn’t a shield, as her eldest daughter accused her one evening, but simply a state of being. It was like the laugh lines around her eyes and the ache in her left knee- simply a way her body was now. Something time had given, and would not be taking back.

Pepper spent the several weeks before her 67th birthday reorganizing and simplifying all of the business accounts. After blowing out the candles on a red velvet cake from her favorite bakery, she promoted all four of her children to partners in the company, and retired. It shocked all of her family so much that she was halfway done with her slice of cake before any of them spoke again. They were obviously teetering between grateful and worried, and Pepper decided it was fine to let them choose which side to fall on. She had always promoted independence in her children. She laughed with they split evenly over joy for her retirement and concern for her, what her plan was to do next. It was sweet, really, the way their eyes narrowed cautiously above their smiles. They had never seen their mother without something keep her busy!

But oh, she would be very busy indeed. There would just no longer be board meetings or jets to construction sites or early morning calls to board members. Now, there would be her stories. Instead of investors, now the hunt was for listeners. And where were the best listeners in the city? The same places where people pretended not to hear: extravagant bars, expensive hotel lobbies, regal halls, and old libraries.

She attacked this plan much like she had every other success in her life. First, there was a battle plan sketched up on whatever object was nearby when inspiration hit- this time, her bathroom mirror (Clark had started leaving dry erase markers there after she ruined her favorite lipstick to make sure she didn’t forget her exotic ballroom plan before she dried her hair).

Second, she would type it up officially on her laptop with a full pot of coffee nearby. She listed names of coffee houses that held weekly poetry readings, libraries looking for volunteers, karaoke nights that welcomes the bold.

Lastly, she jumped, and hoped there was ground somewhere below.

This jump was taking herself on a starlit date to downtown. She closed the clasp on her diamond necklace. It was a backup plan, there to shimmer if she didn’t manage to herself. She left her professional gray blazers in the closet, and pulled on the mink coat Clark had gotten her for her 40th birthday. A thrill went through her at the thought of being one of those interesting characters a passerby noticed as he shuffled to his next stop. After slipping on heels that would make her feet ache in the morning, she called for the driver. Tonight, she’d start somewhere familiar.

“The Swan, please.”

The Word

Return (verb): 1. Come or go back to a place or person. 2. Give, put, or send (something) back to a place or person.

(noun): 1. An act of coming or going back to a place or activity. 2. A profit from an investment.

Hi again! I think the word for this story is pretty clear. Just like Pepper, I’m back to telling my stories.* Also like Pepper, I am very excited to do so. I hope you enjoy this little dip into her tale!

Just a note on what we’ll call Family Matters- as you may remember from Today I am Steady, we learned that Pepper is Peter’s grandmother. Which meeeeeans, Peter’s very stiff mother we met in Today I am Carry is Pepper’s one of daughters. This is correct. It may not seem like a gal raised by the caring and comfortable Pepper and Clark would turn out so stiff, but I think with what she may have experienced due to her parent’s lives, her personality can be understandable. Perhaps one day we’ll get her side of the story…

 

*No, I do not imagine myself as Pepper or vise versa, she’s far too humble for me! And also I don’t like French 75s 😉

The Story

So, reader, a little about me: I’ve always been cursed.

It’s true! No matter what I have done, where I have gone, it has followed me. I was aware from a very young age. I called it… The Writing Curse.

Oh my goodness, you think, what tragedy! What could be the details of a such a frightening hex? Perhaps she is doomed to write adventures but never her own? Is she spelled as the poor Trojan Cassandra and no one will ever believe her words? Or each word written is one less breath she takes in life?!

Alright well no, nothing like that. But to a young girl with a young heart? It sure seemed like it sometimes.

I first noticed it with sweet Daniel. He had bright green eyes and dark auburn hair. He liked it when his sister and I played kickball with the boys at recess, and he thought the joke from my Laffy Taffy wrapper was very funny.

Obviously, I was in love.

So I wrote him into my nightly tale. Oh, you didn’t write nightly tales as a kid? You didn’t have journal upon journal hawked from your brothers’ school supplies or your dad’s office drawer filled with your first fantasy novel? Well now you sound like the crazy one.I spent several pages turning Daniel into a knight that saved the mermaid princess who only vaguely (aka exactly) matched my image.

The next morning in real life, he could not take his eyes off our classmate Jessica. That’s right. Not me. Her. So I made sure to out run Jessica in gym class, which I felt probably was the same as having your tiny second grade heart broken.

Then there was Matt. Matt was everything Daniel hadn’t been: Blond, blue eyed, and tall. He was probably the tallest guy in third grade, and that was very appealing. Third grade is when homework gets a little more difficult (cursive was hard, okay?) so it was a while before I returned to my writing. But once I made Matt into my story’s Tarzan, he was over me.

I started to catch on.

When Petey had an obvious crush on me, because come on- no one shared their cafeteria cookie that often with a girl they weren’t crushing on- I decided to conduct an experiment. I had to take the risk that it would not only hurt my wee little feelings, but may also risk my daily a chocolate chip share. This was serious, but I had to know. So I wrote Petey’s freckles and his thin nose into a pirate lord searching for his sea goddess, who again, looked an awful lot like me. But I chickened out. I didn’t want to miss Petey, even if he did like baseball better than soccer. Couples overcame much worse, right? So I got out my big eraser and scarred the page to rid it of my little spell.

The following day, that 1/2 a cookie went to Rebecca. Oddly enough, they’re married now.

So it was true. I had the magical abilities I had always dreamt of, but like any true heroine, it was not what I had expected. And it was even stronger than I’d imagined! It was not just the writing itself existing, but the mere creation of the words that triggered the bewitchment! This was a great power with terrible consequences. Oh how the worry that I could accidentally use it on a friend or family member plagued me. I created only strangers in my tales from then on. The prince, the princess, even the villagers and warriors had to be people I had never seen, eye colors that were never natural, hometowns I’d never seen- no uncertainty could be overlooked. For both my people and my heart, I needed to remain vigilant.

That of course lasted until Mike. He was my first kiss and my first mixed CD, both equally important to a twitterpated high schooler.

Telling my diary that night, I dismissed my previous entries that whimpered about The Writing Curse as the overactive imagination of a child. I was 14 and a half now, practically a grown woman! I had no need for infantile fears. There was no reason at all for me not to write every single disgusting detail of my first kiss and how I’d defiantly lost my good chapstick on the bus immediately afterwards. That was important documentation that I would need to look back on to make sure our grandchildren had the luxury of every last triviality!

So, you know, of course I wrote about him, and of course we broke up within the week. It was not a coincidence. It was not, as my parents suggested, the fickle heart of a young man. No no. He’d made me a CD, we were a serious romance. You don’t just make a mixed CD for a girl you’re not head over heels for! There was no other explanation than The Curse.

I became paranoid. When Ben began winking at me, I made sure to keep from telling even my diary. I refused to include any details to my best friend Dana in our notes during band class- it was too dangerous. Ben had brown eyes with flecks of blue and he was popular. I was not going to lose this one.

Months went by, and I began to get a bit comfortable. Christmas break was coming, and there were tests to study for as well as gifts to wrap. My talent of creating interesting strangers for my stories was growing well. I had gotten to the point where I no longer needed to fight the urge to make the male lead look overly familiar. He was given silver hair or purple freckles. His skill lied in archery or horseback riding, certainly not biology or the trumpet. Nope, couldn’t risk even those similar ties.

Yet still, after the town Christmas parade, both my tongue and my ego were scorched: one by overly hot cocoa, and the other by Ben’s decision that we should just be friends.

I let myself cry. Because really, this was the first time I was actually getting rejected! All the other times had been The Curse. This was the first time that my string had truly been cut simply because the other person didn’t want to hold it anymore.

But… wait.

I ran to my room, shuffled through the papers on my desk. My pen pal had such better handwriting than me that I used to write out my letters once to say everything, and then a second, slower, to make the words more legible. Gel pens went flying, my napping cat yelped in alarm as she was flung to the floor, but finally I found the draft. What had I done!? I’d be so careful, and yet it had still won! I had been so pleased to get her letter days before and quickly write her back that I had not stopped to process or filter! And there it was in bright blue ink of the second paragraph: I’m actually really excited to have a boyfriend over Christmas break! We’ll make apple cider and throw snowballs and it will be like a cheesy movie!

There were 3 things wrong with this: 1) I fell into The Curse. 2) I didn’t really like apple cider at the time but it sounded more grownup than Swiss Miss. 3) We lived at the bottom of Texas. No way was there going to be any snowballs for Christmas.

My heart was truly broken this round.

This pattern repeated itself over and over and over again. Each year I grew older, I would attempt again to pretend The Writing Curse was not real. But its power was immense. Within the week of any written mention of my heart’s new desire, the flame was extinguished. I was victimized by a sticky note to my lab partner, or a short entry in my required “inner journey” notebook for the philosophy course. Attacked with my own doodles or MadLibs with the roommate. Nothing was safe.

Then there was Zander. He was cute and soft. A smartass and adorably stupid at the same time. He was just the right balance of needy and sarcastic and useless that a young lady looks for in a temporary partner to scar their world view on partnerships. Perfection.

Unfortunately, I got a little older, got a little wiser. I had to let this nonsense boy go, and yet I couldn’t bare to do so. We broke up and got back together repeatedly. We screeched accusations and then whispered apologies. We insisted that we were knotted together but really it was just a frayed rope we refused to drop.

In one of the many aftermaths of our fights, in a fit of rage and sorrow, I reached under my bed for my Not So Secret Box of Secret Things. In it were old birthday cards from my family, a teddy bear I only pulled out when my roommate wasn’t home, and my writing journal. Pen to paper, I wrote that boy out of my life.

Every wisp of dirty blond hair was described. Each flake of yellow in his brown eyes meticulously recorded. I gave him dialog and called him by name. For the first time ever, I wielded the power of The Writing Curse for my own needs.

“Why?” He demanded.

Because I had to.

“Why when that’s one of your biggest stupid superstitions, would you write about us?! You’re so freaking dramatic!”

When the phone call ended, I knew it had worked. There would be no apology follow-up call. There would be no knock on my door to take it all back. We were finally free of each other, and I hated it. I hated knowing beyond a shadow of doubt that I’d heard his voice for the last time. There would come a day when we both moved on and were happier, but it wasn’t that evening. I’d had to write him out, and The Curse is not gentle.

 

The Word

Logophile (noun): A love of words.

Honestly, I’m a little impressed with myself for making it all the way to May before using this word. It was so easily a word that was going to be used in this blog, but I wanted to put it off until a story felt right. Since this one is literally about me writing* I figured it would be appropriate.

Also, if you don’t see the connection between my own curse and the movie Practical Magic, please go watch it until you have most of the lines memorized. It’s really for your own good, you’ll enjoy yourself I promise!

Alright lovely loyal readers, thanks for reading this change-of-pace story. I have a few new stories in the works that are back to my regular style. We’ll be hanging out with our friendly neighborhood regulars again soon!

*All names and locations have been changed even though it wasn’t really necessary as I guarantee you these people have no idea I have a blog. 0:) 

The Story

“QUIET!”

But the 32 students were not. Tammy was sure this was the day she would finally lose her mind.

The kids had been rowdy since morning. It started small, with a few of the boys trying to launch their empty juice boxes to the trash can, and missing terribly. She had noted that she would need to speak to the gym teacher about their aiming abilities. When one girl tossed her water bottle and had a successful swish, the boys saw a call to war.

Since then, it had been seven and a half hours of agonizing patience, prodding, and begging to get the kids to do their work, to pay attention, to simply sit in their god forsaken chairs!

Days like this were not new to Tammy, but they were more exhausting than they’d once been. In her first years of teaching, she would take a deep breath, corral her students, and continue the lesson. As the years went on, the deep breaths turned into several deep breaths, and then long sighs, but she was still able to bring the loudest of students back into the fold.

Today, however, they had won. Now that she thought of it, they won last Thursday too. And the Monday before that. Was she losing her touch?

She knew the real reason though. Her husband’s bakery was becoming more successful every hour, so she joined him there both before and after school. If there is anyone that can smell a tired, weakened adult from a mile away- it’s a student.

Not that she wasn’t proud of her husband! She was immensely proud of him. It was her honor to fret over his long hours and to assist his assistant. She wanted to be by his side and help grow his dream.

But these kids weren’t going to discuss the horizon layers of soil on their own.

“Mrs. Morris! Conner stuck his gum in my pencil case!”

Tammy bit the inside of her cheek to keep the growl in her throat from escaping out loud. Instead, she turned her no-nonsense glare on little blond Conner.

“Conner, you will sit in front of my desk with the wet wipes until Jessica’s pencils and pencil cases are shiny and spotless.”

“But Mrs. Mo-”

“And you will bring me your gum.”

Behind her, a loud bubble popped.

“And so will who ever popped that bubble! Gum is not allowed in class! If I have to check everyone’s desk, I will double the homework tonight!”

There were many grumbles and a small argument between a couple students before two packs of gum were placed in Tammy’s waiting palm. She knew there were more in the classroom, but at least this was a little win for the hellish day.

She tasked them with a worksheet, and though she told them twice to work silently, there were constant whispers and grumbles. Where the happy chatter of children learning normally warmed Tammy, the complaints and whines were like an icicle straight to her temples. It would be two glasses of wine tonight.

When she was finally able to escape her classroom and duck in the back of Preston’s Pastries, her energy was at an all time low. The short, silent car ride over had not been enough to calm the pounding in her forehead.

She didn’t have the icing skills of her husband or his junior baker Maddie, but she liked to do the dipping and pouring of glazes. Tammy felt it was a bit like meditating. Pick, dip, lay on cooling wrack to set. Pick, dip, lay. Pick, dip… grab dropped cookie out of glaze, lay. Pick, dip, lay. Pick, relax, dip. Lay, breathe, pick.

“Maddie!” She heard Preston call, “Where are the pecan pies?!”

“Two more minutes in the oven!” Maddie called back from behind Tammy’s spot at the icing bench.

“Bring those out when they’re done!” Preston called again from the bakery door.

Before it closed behind him, the sound of the front of house floated past the door into the back kitchen. Then a ding from the register. A mother asked her children to stop touching the glass of the display case, and Preston laughed that it was alright. What sounded like a couple was loudly discussing a cake design: “Is there a difference between magenta and pink?” “Yes, Brad, of COURSE!”

Maddie whistled while molding fondant. The large-batch mixer was whirring with ingredients that would eventually be chocolate-chunk muffins. The oven timer went off. The doorbell rang through the building. The dishwasher chugged and chortled.

And finally, the pressure in Tammy’s neck began to fade. Her shoulders relaxed into the weave of sound and movement. She began a little hum to accompany Maddie’s whistle, following the beat with each whoopee pie she now half-dipped in chocolate ganache.

A long time later, Tammy felt a kiss on her cheek and laughed as Preston had to follow it by wiping his mouth.

“How did you get icing all the way up on your face?!” He laughed.

She just rolled her eyes and held up her hands, which were also speckled with icing, all the way to her elbows.

“Ah. Good day at work, though?” He asked, clearing up the space around Tammy and stacking bowls for wash.

“No,” Tammy smiled at him, “it was terrible.”

“Oh?” He stopped, looking concerned. “Then why the smile?”

“Because summer is coming. And I’ll come here to work with you.”

“Aw love!” Preston turned her to plant another kiss, this time on her forehead, “I love when you get summers to be in here, but we’ll take a real vacation too.”

Tammy laughed, “No no, I’m done at the school. I’m going to be here with you. And Maddie!” she leaned around Preston to smile at the younger baker, “Permanently.”

The Word

Mellifluous (adj): Sweet or musical (of a voice or words); pleasant to hear.

God bless the teachers of the world! It is not an easy job and they don’t get enough credit/pay/respect for it.

But teaching was not for Tammy. It was noise, and she wanted sound again. I think we can all understand that. There are tones and tunes that, even if intended to be pleasant, make us anxious or stressed. It’s the difference between the racket of life and the melody of a good day. It’s important to really hear what is around us, to let our systems tell us if it makes us happy or not. And those aren’t always the same spaces for everyone- the resonance of a bakery might drive someone crazy, while for Tammy it’s a safe place. Maybe your spot is where you can hear the movements of a river, or in the middle of a loud family event. Just find your sounds- find your space!

Happy listening, friends 🙂

_

This is a sister-story to Today I am Simplicity if you would like to go read the other side of this tale!

_

Shoutout to my girl KR, who found the word for today when I wasn’t feeling inspired by any of the ones I was reading!

If YOU have a word that you think can inspire a story, please go to the Contact page and send me a message!

The Story

Caroline let out a long, happy sigh. Her last patron trundled out the door, and she waited half a minute before rushing to lock the door behind him.

Spring had finally overtaken the cold, so she was tempted to reopen the door after seeing the gentleman turn the corner. But she decided the fresh breeze was not worth the risk of a passerby thinking the bar was still open.

Weekdays were always quiet, and therefore always handled by a single manager. She’d sent the new waitress, Maddie, home an hour ago, but continued to serve the melancholy man until he was ready to leave. She didn’t always let people stay passed closing, but this gentleman had been in several times, never got obnoxiously drunk, and left a good tip.

She turned and leaned back against the door, surveying her little domain. There had been two interviews and a full bar audition to earn the coveted spot as a lead bartender here. Caroline had heard of an opening, and practiced for weeks after shifts at her old hole-in-the-wall bar to master her movements as well as her spirit knowledge.

The Swan was no place for flipping bottles of vodka high in the air to impress co-eds. This was the favored bar for both the quietly wealthy and the want-to-be famous of the city. These people wanted smooth over showy, flowing and easy movements that told them they were in confident hands. They needed someone who knew sorrow called for strong yet pure, and different joys begged for different flavors. One needed to be as cool as the marble curled in front of tall arched chairs; as peaceful as the azure walls stretched high to meet with crystal chandeliers that shimmered even in the dim evening. Yet still as warm and approachable as the overstuffed leather couches circled farthest away from the door, where the larger groups liked to gather. Caroline was proud to belong here, both in the rush of Saturday evenings as well as the hushed Tuesday nights.

These quieter evenings, or rather early mornings, when the seats were empty and the doors locked, that is when Caroline’s true regulars arrived.

The shadows in the edge of each corner and every doorway, those had been with her since she could barely toddle. They arrived each evening in her childhood bedroom to stay until dawn. When she’d lay down at night, she’d stare at them, wide eyed and determined to stay awake. She thought if she kept a watch on them, they could not creep any closer. If the dared to do so, she sprinted to the sanctuary of her mother’s sleepy arms.

Shadows followed her to her first apartment too, where there was no parental shelter. Part of the reason she took a job with so many night shifts was to avoid the eerie darkness waiting for her at home. Yet, her first closing night of her bartending debut, there they were. They followed her everywhere.

The knocks and wind-filled whispers had joined her as companions around her teenage years. With growing pains came growing anxiety, and the nightly random pitches were its soundtrack, her speeding heartbeat the metronome. She’d known then she was too old to still be afraid of the dark, but the sounds still shook her. A little scratch there meant danger, a bump here meant imminent peril.

The chill along the back of her neck joined her in the nights after her college graduation. Abroad and alone, nothing prepares the body’s system to lose the last safety net, so this chill happily filled in the void.

She had one regular that who no longer courted her, though. Though they’d left their shadowy accomplices, the hidden monsters themselves left her five years back.

Before that last long night, she had checked each closet corner and under the bed every day since she could remember. As she’d grown, she would try to creak open the closet doors as quietly as possible, so her siblings or roommates would not hear how childish her fears remained. Sometimes, she would have to recheck each dark space again when she woke in the middle of the night.

But he’d taken the monsters with him. After the last fight, in which he had said the only monster he saw was inside Caroline, she watched him walk out her door. She stared at the closed door for several long minutes, and then simply went to bed. It was only when she was halfway through the night she realized what she hadn’t done. But the sobbing and heartbreak were too heavy for her to rise and do her nightly rounds. The next night came, and she again felt no need to check. She knew there was no reason to inspect the empty spaces. Whether it was because he was right or he was wrong still weighed on her mind. Either way, the other monsters took their leave along with him.

A little older, a little more worn, she welcomed those she once tried to chase away. Sometimes the world was too bright, or the glare from a busy shift too painful, and the gloomy corners softened the pain around her eyes. They’d become more shade than shadow.

The bumps and thumps fought of the silence. Now they were only her sunless symphony.

She rolled her neck back and the chill creeping there cooled the steaming sweat from a long shift.

Caroline wiped down the marble bar, humming to the dark places. These were her regulars. These were the patrons she always served, and a good bartender was kind to her loyal customers.

The Word

Hello, reader! Though can stand alone, I think you'd enjoy the following piece more if you read Today I am Effervescent and/or Today I am Alveolate beforehand. Thank you, and enjoy!

The Story

Neal was simply exhausted. Thank goodness his shift was finally over. His back hurt, his feet hurt, and sangria had been soaking through his pants for the past hour and half. Damn bachelor party.

On top of that, Caroline had been distracted half the night watching over Pepper and that quiet chick, leaving him to deal with John’s date’s need to order every single complicated cocktail under the sun. If he’d had to blend one more godsdamn egg white, he was going to start foaming himself. But this was the second time John had brought the redhead in, a new record, so between that and the tips, Neal kept a smile on his face.

Mr. Silent Martini had come in again, too. At least this guy fascinated Neal. The gentleman always ordered whichever martini was on special, sipped it about halfway down, and then left. Now Neal understood saving some cash via the happy-hour method, but he was confused how someone could happily enjoy a mango martini, espresso martini, old fashioned dirty martini, and even the Valentine’s Day cran-raspberry martini with the exact same reaction: a little inhale of shock on the first sip, and then several confident swallows. The guy would then straighten the dark sunglasses he’d pushed up into his brunette buzzcut, even thought they hadn’t moved a single centimeter since he sat down. Exactly the same movements, every single time. It was an interesting enough ritual that Neal mostly forgave the guy for the wrong currency he dropped as a tip after signing the tab.

But the bachelor party had done him in. Eight dudes ordering pitchers of sangria until they couldn’t see straight. As instructed by the Mother of the Groom hours earlier, Neal called the Father of the Groom when the group began to repeat their old college fight song, and helped the older gentleman put each of the men in their hotel room in the Ritz across the street. He was thanked with a handshake and a tip that would pay his rent for the month.

Neal stood on the curb for a minute to breathe before going back into the bar.  The wind was cold. It was late in the season, yet winter was roaring with its claws still firmly hooked in the air. He was so very tired, and he knew his shoulder would remind him of the groomsmen’s weight in the morning. Neal shivered a little, but was glad to have a quiet moment in the dark.

His breath taken, he moved to cross the street back into the light and sound of the bar. Then he saw them.

He froze mid-step. Pepper was walking arm-in-arm with the quiet girl. No, quiet woman. Had he missed her face before? She seemed a little older than he’d thought, with intriguing hazel eyes that seemed to shimmer across the distance. He blinked, no- she was young like he’d thought. His eyes must have been as tired as the rest of him. Still, she had a little glow, a little spring to her step as she walked with Pepper. He was not surprised that Pepper seemed to glow a little too. She always had.

A BMW’s horn reminded him he was in the middle of the street.

By the time he was safely on the other side, the two ladies were gone, and he wasn’t sure why he’d stopped to watch them. The small part of him that wondered what they were up to was pushed aside when he saw the room still filled with patrons. Just one more hour, then he and Caroline could take off and leave the darkest hours before dawn to the next shift.

During a small lull between pouring tequila shots and refilling chardonnays, Neal wiped the various shades of liquor off the marbled bar. That’s when he noticed Pepper’s coat still draped across a tall chair. He realized when he’d seen her outside, she hadn’t been wearing it. Neal tried to never judge a woman by her age, but he thought one with Pepper’s laugh lines shouldn’t be just leaving their fancy coats when out to a walk in the dropping temperatures of a northern February. Perhaps Pepper was just walking the young lady to a cab and would be right back in. A deep part of him knew that wasn’t true. The same space within him suggested that evening had been Pepper’s last visit to their establishment.

Still, he gathered her soft mink and placed it on the employee coat rack in the back for safe keeping. Until she returned.

 

The Word

Apricate (verb): To bask in the sun.

Important word note from Dictionary.com: Latin apricatus, past participle of apricari “to bask in the sun,”from apricus “exposed” (to the sun); perhaps contracted from *apericus , from aperire “to open.”

I just like that this word to bask, can also come from both “exposed” or “to open” because those are the same thing, one is unwilling and one is willing.

Anyway 🙂

The Story

Heads I go. Tails you stay.

Tails

So she steps forward, shoots a fiery smile in his direction. He rolls his eyes, laughing, and takes her hand. It’s a long drive, but from the passenger seat, the trees pass by in a hurried blur.

She knows it’s kismet. She knows her guardian angel is glad to take some time off, to let this tall drink of sun tea watch over a bit.

When the road starts to curve, she ignores the bright yellow SLOW sign. She’s not afraid. He is safe in the mountains, on the roads she grew up driving.

They draw a square along the paper map. It’s fun to work with inked lines for the first time in forever, after staring at the lights of the GPS for too long.

There are boxes stacked on boxes, covered in tape and room labels.

“Bedroom”

“Master Closet”

“Kitchen”

“Basement”

There is trust stacked on memories, covered in lies.

“Yeah, only you.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

“You’re wrong.”

“No.”

Then all of the sudden it’s too late and too much and not enough all at once. The realization makes her chest cold and her neck hot. There is a ring on her right hand. It’s not hers, but it’s not anyone else’s.

Heads

But at least she took the first step, as well as the last. Her words were the beginning, and the end. Pain sneaks in if she allows anything past the numb, but she pays the price a little to acknowledge the pride.

So she steps back. She turns the music up. There’s a half glass of wine and a world of power within her.

 

The Word

Consequence (noun): 1. A result or effect of an action or condition. 2. Importance or relevance.

I feel like I’m back in my childhood bedroom, writing in my bright blue diary with a pink gel pen, but we have to get those words out too, right? I’ve already said enough today. I think if I said anymore, it would just be cliche dribble. So I’ll let these far more experienced authors speak for me tonight:

“I knew I would hate my best memory because it would prove that people could fake love or that love could end or worst of all, love was not powerful enough to change a life.”
― Mona Simpson

“Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, (from The Great Gatsby)

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do, so throw off the bowlines, sail away from safe harbor, catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” -Mark Twain

 

 

The Story

Selene walked the path of stars. The air was always cool up here, but tonight there was a slight breeze through the shimmers. Her sister’s laughter floated along with it.

“Good evening, Dogoda.”

“Good evening, sister.” The wind whispered back.

Selene laughed as the breeze playfully twirled her sleeves It put her in a good mood, so she woke the dawn with a gentle coo, “Ushas. It’s time.”

“I see that it is,” A bright voice answered, “Thank you, cousin. Good day!”

“Good day, my dear.”

Selene watched the golden woman drift to the edge and coax daybreak from its slumber. Eternity had not dulled the splendor, to her, of the world shifting from the tranquil blues and grays to the victorious orange and pinks. Though it meant her reign was over for another day, it still filled her with hope.

And it did not mean her work was over. It never really was.

“Bez?”

“Hmm?”

“Come on, we’ve got to get the girls.”

“Hmph. You go get them.”

“No no, it was a long night and you’ve had plenty of rest.”

A pale hand pushed back long blond braids, “We’re entering spring. The nights are shorter.”

Selene placed a hand on her hip. “And you’re an immortal. Get up. Or I’ll ask Hypnos to take your place.”

Selene hid her giggle at the big blue eyes rolling upwards before Bezelea stretched and fell in beside her on the northern path.

They walked quietly for a moment. Too quietly for the younger goddess’s normal chatter.

“Bez, what’s on your mind?”

“Aren’t they getting worse, Selene?”

“…worse how?”

“They’re getting strained. More painful.”

“I don’t think so. I think there are just so many more of them now.”

They walked a moment longer.

The blond slowed to a stop, then shook her head. “No, it’s not that. The younger ones have seen so much.”

Selene returned to Bezelea’s side, tucked the girl into her chest. “There was a time when the younger ones couldn’t be young at all. At least now there’s a chance for children to be just that.”

“But only for a time.” Came the muffled complaint.

“A time we can protect. It makes all the difference.” She lifted her younger sister’s chin. “And you know that.”

“I do.”

“Alright then,” Selene took Bezelea’s hand and they walked into the home of the northern star.

The twins were already hard at work, fishing the dream catchers up from earth. Selene always admired their synced movements. Nuit had done the work all on her own for centuries, but the world had changed so that it wore her to near pieces. Thankfully, the Zorya girls knew that together they could pull the dream catchers from earth the same way. One from morning and one from night could take the same place as the goddess of sky.

Selene was immensely proud. These were her first daughters, and they were doing so well.

With a sigh, Bezelea sat beside them and began to release the nightmares caught within each dream catcher. Selene admired the creativity of the earth dwellers. Their need to protect themselves had their hearts creating shields from anything and everything.

Sure there were the traditionalists that knew their needs, knotted hide and hair with flower and feather to tie themselves to earth and their mind to the sky. Other hearts had to get a little creative, which had sweet Bezelea untangling wind chimes, knitted blankets, and the occasional set of Christmas lights.

Selene had done her part for so long, it was natural. Watching over the night was her joy, but here was her true task.

Each morning, Zorya Utrennyaya and Zorya Vechernaya together plucked the dream catchers up into the sky. Bezelea, with her gift of change from day to night, had the strength to unsnarl the dark illusions from the dream catchers. Then, Selene had to guide them.

Dreams were nothing to be thrown away into the universe. They could grow and plague the cosmos with dark deeds and cruel desires. Each had to be controlled, sent to the exact corner of shade where they could do no harm. Since dreams were a reflection of thought, they answered only to Selene’s reflection of her brother’s light. She alone could send them on their way safely.

But it was exhausting work. The fear flowing through each idea and image drained her. There were those who felt attacked by monsters, those who felt exposed by friends. There was the fear of not belonging, of not knowing oneself. Too much pressure. Not enough trust. But the hardest were the ones who felt trapped. Selene’s whole existence was freedom to float between the stars. She could gaze upon the world through her light or rest in the shade Yggdrasil bathed her in from time to time. So the trapped, to her, were worse than the damned. Or at least the same.

She sent these dreams as far from the world as she could. A black hole in a universe so far it was still nameless, and she prayed to any of her family that would listen, that there those nightmares stayed.

Her hands weaved and waved for hours, chaperoning these warped affairs and imagined strifes.

Then, a snag- a sharp pain against her finger. Like a paper cut, small yet pulsed as if it were an arrow wound. She paused, plucked the fancy from the stream and examined it.

At first, she thought it a violated memory, as it was too bright to be some sort of shaded dream. But she looked closer. It was just a young man, standing on a grassy hill. He would throw a small blurry object, and a brunette pup would race it back to him. The man would laugh and throw it again.

“Bezelea- what is this?”

“What is what?” The younger girl did not look up from her sorting.

“Bezelea, look. Zorya. Please, a moment.”

Bezelea froze as she registered the concern in Selene’s voice. Slowly, like a cuckoo clock winding down, the girls came to a halt, still in sync.

“What is this? I feel no fear. No hate. It’s just a dream. A cute one at that. Why is it here?”

The three goddess were quiet.

“Girls. Zorya, where did you get this?”

But the girls didn’t answer then either. They both looked to Bezelea.

Selene waited.

“This… this is what I meant earlier.”

Selene’s eyebrows furrowed, “When we were talking about the young ones?”

“Yes, Selene.” Bezelea twirled the end of a vintage veil she had been combing through.

“But this one… looks so happy. You said they’d seen too much.”

“And they have,” She pulled another illusion from the veil. It too was bright and airy. Within it, a bride’s point of view flashed between the eyes of her father, the aisle at her feet, and the eyes of her moments-away husband.

“I don’t understand. Tell me why these have been caught along with the dark ones.” Selene was stiff, scared of the guessing game the world seemed to be playing on her.

“Momma,” Zorya Utrennayaya whispered, “They are scared of their happiness…”

“…because it is gone. It hurts them.” finished Zorya Vechernaya.

Selene stared at the dreams. She shook her head.

“No, no this isn’t right. I will speak with Somnus. This has to be Phobetor’s doing, this time his games have gone too far.”

Bezelea reached out and grasped Selene’s hand before she could go, “The girls already spoke with Somnus. His sons have no part in this.”

Selene slumped against the sky, “So they are… truly afraid of the night now. Even sweet dreams are bitter?”

The three girls nodded.

“Not all…” answered Zorya Utrennayaya.

“…but many.” whispered Zorya Vechernaya.

Selene nodded slowly. Her eyes seemed to glaze, but Bezelea knew those eyes were soaring over the stars, searching the earth for the confusing pain. And by the quickening pulse in Selene’s temple, it was found.

“They still need their rest…” Selene spoke softly, almost to herself.

“Yes, Selene. So we keep to our task.” Bezelea tried to fill her words with comfort, as the moon goddess had done for her so many times.

“Yes, Bez, of course.”

The twins stared at each other for a long moment, and then at their mother. “Perhaps we do not have to send the bright ones so far away…”

“…perhaps we could hold them near. In case one day they will bring joy again?”

Selene offered a small, sad smile. “Yes, my darlings. That is a good idea. I will find a place for them where they can offer the light they are meant to.”

Bezelea offered Selene the next beautiful dream, this one of small footprints on a sandy beach, and Selene held it for a moment. She weighed it in her hand, as she did each nightmare, but instead of sending it away, she tucked it into her robes. And she did the same with the next, and the next.

When it was time for Bezelea to cover the world in evening, Selene kissed the forehead of each her daughters, then walked with Bezelea to the edge of day.

“What will you do with them?”

Selene’s grin was that of a worn mother, one who knew weight so her children would not.

“I am the reflector of day, my dear. If these will not light the minds of our earthly bound, then they shall light their paths. It is the least I can do.”

Bezelea left Selene there, at the edge. But as she slowly peeled back the day into dusk, she saw the moon rise with a grandeur she had never witnessed before. Selene had taken each and every dream into herself and now shone nearly as bright as her brother. Bezelea was in awe, and when she looked below saw she was not alone. There were children giggling in driveways, allowed to stay out another minute due to the bright nightfall. Lovers held hands, unafraid, through a forrest path. A young girl turned off her night-light, and opened her curtains to the moonbeams instead.

Bezelea heard a soft laugh behind her, saw Nyx’s slow steps approaching.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” She asked the night.

“Yes,” Nyx replied, “quiet joyful. Sweet dreams, young one. Sweet dreams.”

 

The Word

CHIMERA (noun): 1. (in Greek mythology) A fire-breathing female monster with a lion’s head, a goat’s body, and a serpent’s tail. 2. A thing that is hoped or wished for but in fact is illusory or impossible to achieve

PHEW we got some mythology learning up in here tonight!

If you even kiiiiinda enjoyed this short story, go read (or audio book) American Gods right now. Though I’ve had this thought long before I listened to this book, Neil Gaimen has a much more polished writing than I (shocking, I know!) but plays on the idea of all mythology gods on the same playing field. He is where I first heard of the Zorya twins, and I loved adding them to my story. (Also- what a good story/sequel name right? One is Zorya Utrennyaya and the sequel is Zorya Vechernaya? DIBS.)

I love the night in spring. It is pretty in all seasons, but I am either a reptile or some sort of perennial flower, so I like to be under covers for most of winter. The spring is when the night and I get reacquainted. It’s beautiful, really. And even in a city lit 24/7 like mine, the stars and moon pick and choose times to be dim or bright (don’t come at me with that science stuff, this is a writing blog! 😉 ). I hope this is why. I hope those happy memories we sometimes turn away from become our guiding lights. I like the idea that the stars are worried for us, and are watching closely to make sure we are alright down here.

Pleasant dreams, sweet reader. May they at least light your way.

The origins of the gods rewritten in my story today:

• Selene (Greek) – Goddess of the moon, sister to the sun god
• Dogoda (Slavic) – Goddess of the west wind, and of love and gentleness.
• Ushas (Hindi) – Goddess of the dawn
• Bezelea (Linthuanian) – Goddess of the evening
• Zorya (Slavic) – Guardian goddess of the auroras; morning (Ut≠rennyaya) and evening star (Vechernaya). Sometimes associated with the North star
• Nuit (Egyptian) – Goddess of the sky
• Somnus (Roman) – God of sleep
• Phobetor (Roman) – Demigod of fright; son of Somnus
• Nyx (Greek) – Goddess of the night

The Story

It had been a nice date. But as they were driving home, top down on the Ford Coupe, she had to admit the evening had not been as dazzling as she’d hoped. The gentleman was kind, had opened doors and pulled out chairs, yet the spark was noticeably absent. He clearly noticed too, as he’d switched from his charming manner to a more casual, jovial one. She appreciated that, and though disappointed in a lack of romance, looked forward to the addition of a new friendship.

“So are all the gals in your suite English majors?”

“Not all of us, just most. Zenith is planning to go into nursing, so she dances between math and chemistry.”

“Oh, a dancer- think maybe we could double with her sometime if I bring someone for you?”

Billie laughed, “Of course! Though I meant dances between classes, I’m not sure if she can handle a swing.”

Todd grinned at her, “Oh I can teach a girl to swing, but she’s got to know how to move between things first.”

Billie laughed again, and they began to discuss the different double date partners they could find for one another.

Two blocks from her dorm, Todd slowed the car for a stop sign. The warm buzz of a city afternoon flowed into the car. There were other Friday night dates walking by with ice creams, discussing their hometowns. A young co-ed called her beagle to heel. A few rowdy boys sat outside a sandwich shop, loudly comparing baseball stats for anyone to hear and be mildly impressed. Two young men in their Navy fatigues waited at the intersection to cross the street. It was a perfect southern evening, with a crescent moon threatening to show her face a little early over the palmetto branches, and a cool breeze beginning to sweep the stale heat of the day away.

Todd waited patiently for this turn to go, but when he put his foot on the gas, Billie stopped him with a hand to his arm.

“Todd- who is that.”

It was more a demand then question.

Todd followed her gaze to the Navy privates. “Oh they’re in my command. You talking about the taller one or the shorter one?”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Alright, the taller one then!” He laughed, “That’s Jerry Johnson. Says he’s from Graniteville. Sorry to say, sugar, but he’s got a fiancé back home.”

Billie smiled mischievously, “Well Todd, that’s too good a nose and too nice a hairline for my children not to have ’em. So I’ll just have to introduce myself.”

“There’s no stopping you,” Todd chided her, but still pulled over to the corner. “Jerry! Connor! Come jump in! This is Billie and we’re going for a float at Hannigan’s.”

The shorter, stalkier man didn’t hesitate, “I’ll never say no to a good float with a pretty gal!”

Jerry Johnson still stood on the sidewalk, considering.

Todd waved him in, “Come on  Jerry, you’ve got time for a soda with us!”

Billie met his eyes for the first time- hers blue as the first crest of sea at dawn and his the last rippled waves at night. She felt him reading her, calculating, wondering. She knew he saw what she did; the promise of future. A bit of undeniable destiny on the corner of Spring St. and Main.

“Yeah,” He said slowly, in a drawling agreement to the rest of his life, “I’ve got time for that I think.”

The Word

Serendipity (Noun): The occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

Some of you have heard the shorter, FAR less fictionalized version of the above story. My Nanna, Billie, met my Poppa when he was already engaged. However, she wanted that strong Southern nose and long legs on her babies, and he could not resist those deep blue eyes and “the prettiest smile in Columbia” with a brain behind it to boot!

I, of course, switched around a few characters and romanticized a bit. I think they’d both forgive me for doing so, and can almost hear Nanna’s rounded laugh at my interpretation. I’ve wanted to tell this story for a while, and it being the first story I’ve written since she passed, it felt like a good way to honor her.

Though Poppa’s originally-intended may disagree, this change in Poppa’s fate is celebrated constantly by my family. Nanna is a sweet but mischievous lady, in the very best ways, so although others who have met her are surprised to hear such risky romance paired with her loyal church going and PTA attendance, and her firm farming roots, we’re not all that surprised 🙂

Enjoy the crazy chances the come by, lovely readers! Do as Ms. Billie did and ride fate’s wave!

The Story

Sometimes she flips her hair, considers dying it black. She’ll stare in the mirror, pick up the deep amber eyeliner she bought on a whim. She could go a little wild tonight. Put on the dark, cut her eyes at the bouncer.

But it’s late, and she has work in the morning. So she sets the eyeliner down and tucks her toes back into her slippers.

 

Then there are the times she takes the curve on a mountain road too fast, and for a second she’s free. The wild streak of her soul pulses.  She could turn the music up, windows down, and let that streak take over. Her right foot itches to release her from every responsibility; to push down until she escapes.

But her exit sign appears, so she releases the peddle and flips her blinker switch.

 

Occasionally there are moments when the temptation is too much. When it should lighten the burden, it’s a heavier weight than the world itself lying across the back of her neck, pushing uncomfortably into her shoulder blades. To run, to go, to walk away from any and everything that knows her name.

Yet the phone always rings or the door bell sings or the tea timer alarms and she remembers she can’t. She’s not sure why, but she can’t.

 

And it’s not like she is unhappy. In the morning she answers the baby’s cry with calm reassurances. Or she puts on her uniform. Maybe her heels. She drives the kids to school. Or sits at her desk. Or clocks in at the podium. Her students, her coworkers, her patients all depend on her. It’s rewarding. She saves lives. She saves coupons. She fixes the report, fixes the lunch boxes. It’s the little things, the big things, that remind her where her place is. It’s a comfortable place. It’s fine, for now.

But there’s always the sometimes. And tonight, with cool air and a mild headache, might be the sometime she finally takes.

 

The Word

Metanoia (noun): 1. The journey of changing one’s mind, heart, self, or way of life. 2. Change in one’s way of life resulting from penitence or spiritual conversion.

VERY short short-story today. Maybe more like a poem? It’s words, and they feel right.

I was talking to my friend last night. We’re very different and very the same and we’ve felt these feelings all the time. I’ve rarely spoken to a person who hasn’t. That “oh, to be a bird” feeling is so universal and I just wanted to see if I could put it to words. I think it’s one of those ridiculous being-human things!

I’ll write something a little lighter again soon, promise 🙂

Until then- enjoy your journey, lovely readers!

The Story

She was being ridiculous. Yet her fingers typed madly at the keyboard, researching, copying information, filling out forms.

This was not part of the plan. But her body drove her to the office. Her voice spoke, her mind retained. All while she clamored in the background, still unsure of this leap while already in the air.

How could it be done right? In time? She inquired of the redecorated room, the approving agent, the sun each morning. Each answered there was plenty of time, and all looked more than well.

Am I enough for this? Someone thought so. A young someone, who lived far away, and needed someone who was more enough than could be. A someone who gave approval, a date, a hope.

Too much, too fast. Her heart disagreed, and beat hard against her chest in a joyful dance when the final papers filled her Inbox.

She couldn’t do it. The ink of her last signature vowed she would.

No. “Yes!” she answered to the urgent phone call late one evening.

And then there was silence. Just her and the body that knew better in a silent room. Soft pastel couches lined one wall under a mural of undisturbed sky. Had she been able to move, she would have sat on one so as not to faint.

If there had been a moment to run, it passed when the door across from her opened.

“Mrs. Lindbogen?” The smaller, stouter woman inquired.

“That’s me,” she whispered, more to the bundle than the woman.

“The birth mother is very ready, she’s already signed her forms. But there are still 48 hours before it’s finalized and the petition can begin. You understand?”

“Yes, of course. I read everything.”

The stout woman smiled, “Excellent, I love a reader. The more information the better, I always say!”

The bundle passed to Liza. She tucked it into the cradle of her left arm, as she had practiced with her cat, her neighbor’s corgi, and a bag of brown sugar (her mother said it was far more accurate than flour) for the past several weeks. At this point, she could have cradled a wet eel with no trouble at all.

With her right hand, she pushed the heather gray blanket back to reveal an angry red nose under cherub bright eyes.

“What is her name?”

The stout woman looked disappointed for the first time. “She doesn’t have one yet. The birth mother didn’t want to. So that’s up to you.”

“I see. I just thought she had one already.”

The woman approached Liza, placed one comforting hand on her back, and another under the baby’s shoulder. It reminded Liza of when her childhood preacher had welcomed new members into the church: one hand on the communal fountain, one on the newly integrated.

“No, no she doesn’t. And a name is an important thing. Did you have any picked out, just in case?”

“One. I just thought…”

“Well it may fit. Sometimes it helps to say it out loud, hear how it sounds.”

“Alright.”

So Liza waited until the small babe with the angry red nose and large curious eyes looked at her again. They held each other. Blue eyes to brown, and a whole universe in between.

“Pepper,” she whispered, with a hum of certainty, “Her name will be Pepper.”

“Well that’s adorable, I love it!” The woman squeezed Liza’s shoulder before letting go, collecting a folder from the table Liza hadn’t noticed before. “And what inspired such a name, if I may ask?”

Liza stared down into those deep blues. Without her asking, her body shifted the babe to her right shoulder, began to sway slightly. The first few hours of life are so exhausting, and she felt the smallest of snores confirm so against her neck.

“My late husband’s grandmother. He was the oldest of eight, so she raised him while he helped his parents raise the others.”

The woman nodded, and an understanding of lingering grief and hopeful faith passed between them.

“These forms can wait,” she said, “I’ll give you two a moment alone.”

There would be many moments alone for the two of them, Liza knew. But this would be the first. A cry cut into the quiet, and she answered with a calming coo.

More than enough. More than enough.

The Word

STEADY (verb): Make or become steady. (adjective): 1. Firmly fixed, supported, or balanced; not shaking or moving. 2. Regular, even, and continuous in development, frequency, or intensity. (exclamation): Used as a warning to someone to keep calm or take care. (noun): A person’s regular boyfriend or girlfriend.

First- to anyone who is reading this and has been through the adoption process: you’re awesome. Please excuse any part I have tangled, as I tried to weave official steps from different states/countries together so it could fit anywhere.

Alright second, the word.

When I was more reader than writer, I could not understand those who spoke so personally and selfishly about how what was going on to the people around them was affecting the writer. But I get it now. It is a bit selfish. But it’s also reaching out- it’s steading one’s self on a steep place where others have stood, and asking to be part of something bigger, to be one of the voices echoing back.

My Nanna is very tired. I got to see her smile this weekend, but she is very tired. So she and my family have been a part of every thought I’ve had these past several days. This also leads to thoughts on my Grandma, on the other side of our tree branch. You see, as much as it goes mostly unspoken to the men in our family, both sides have always been pretty matriarchal. The men may have run the household- but the women have ruled the world (or turned the neck, if you’re more into My Big Fat Greek Wedding quotes). I attribute so much of who I am to these women, and am honored to do so.

So why on earth did this lead me to write about Liza adopting a baby after Pete died? Well, because a little something like age or death has never stopped anyone in my family. Nanna still requires Chardonnay over Pinot Grigio even though she doesn’t know whether it’s five o’clock somewhere or not. Poppa’s still holding staff meetings in a sunroom at the nursing home. And I swear when I get up to heaven I’ll find out that Grandma has founded a travel-guardian-angel committee and Grandpa’s in charge of tuning harps. They simply can’t be stopped.

And it is my dream and goal to be the same. To be unstoppable, to allow life to continue to come at me in full force even when I would prefer it not. And it will. As Carl Sandburg said, “a baby is God’s opinion that life should go on.” So while Liza adopts her baby, let us adopt a new life, a new ideal and goal for our futures. Let us honor what was and what is with what’s to come.

And now my word is longer than my story, something I try not to do. But like Liza, someone else who knows better is leading my fingers today.

Live fully, my friends. Goodnight.