November 2007

The Letter (Chapter Two)

The Letter

“This is ridiculous,” she thought to herself as she stared at the blank piece of paper in front of her. “I should just compose this using the computer.” She thought about sitting down in front of the keyboard as she gazed at the stationery she had selected that morning.

“I could compose the letter using the computer and, after I perfect it, copy it to the page in longhand,” she said to herself. “Dr. Nolan would never know.” With that, she pulled out a pad of ordinary lined paper from her desk and picked up the pen to begin writing.

She stopped just before the ink began to flow onto the page.

She would know that she had not completed the exercise in the manner Dr. Nolan advised. And that would be a problem. As silly and pointless as she tried to tell herself the assignment was, she could never lie to Dr. Nolan about how she completed it. Deep within herself she acknowledged its inherent value and understood precisely why Dr. Nolan had insisted that part of the exercise be the experience of actually sitting down with pen and paper to write about her feelings.

As she continued staring at the notepad, she was transported back to a simpler time when her life lay before her and she willingly spent countless hours engaging in just such an exercise. Relished it, in fact, as so many young women do.

The Letter (Chapter One)

The Letter

“Write him a letter. Tell him how you feel,” Dr. Nolan said during one of their weekly sessions. “You don’t have to mail it. We’ll deal with whether or not you should do that at a later date. Your assignment this week is simply to write.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” she declared matter-of-factly.

“You might need to work at it gradually. It may be too difficult for you to write everything you need to say in one sitting. You may have to write it all down over the course of the week. And, frankly, you may not be finished by the time we next meet. This may be an ongoing process for a period of time. But this week I want you to get started. Next week we’ll assess your progress.”

“Why are you asking me to do this?” she asked pointedly.

Thanksgiving at Mom’s

Short Stories

Thanksgiving Dinner Table Everything had to be perfect. The house had to be spotless, with no clutter. “Everything in its place and a place for everything,” her mother told her countless times as she was growing up.

The dinner had to be cooked just as her mother herself had cooked the same meal so many times: The stuffing a perfect blend of spices and, like the turkey, neither too dry nor too moist. The occasion called for the traditional dishes, including candied yams, mashed potatoes and gravy, and the special baked corn dish that her mother prepared every year without fail. The family recipe, detailed on a stained and crinkled index card, was there in the recipe box. She immediately recognized her mother’s handwriting, although she was struck by how strong and sure the letters looked. For several moments, she held the card, stroking the ink marks left upon it so many years ago. She felt tears welling up in her eyes and realized she had better get busy if she were going to have everything ready on time.

The hours seemed to fly by as she carefully prepared each dish. When she finally had everything in the oven or simmering on the stove, she sat down to rest for a few moments and found herself staring at the glass-fronted cabinet. Behind those panes of clear glass, her mother’s China, glassware, and serving dishes neatly lined the shelves in precisely the spots where her mother had replaced them after the last time she herself had prepared a meal in this very kitchen in this very house.

The Dream

Short Stories

Roller Coaster Tracks I awoke with a start. I was disoriented, confused . . . it took me a moment to realize where I was. In fact, I was right at home in my own warm, comfortable bed.

So why had I awakened so forcefully and with such a jolt?

I got up and stumbled about the house for a few moments, wandering aimlessly from room to room in my still-sleepy stupor. I held a glass under the water dispenser on the front of the refrigerator, letting the icy cold splash over my fingers and drag me further from my hazy state. Then, as the chilled water trickled down my throat and I felt every molecule coursing toward my empty stomach, the pain in my chest allowed the details to slowly begin permeating my consciousness.

I slumped down on one of the couches in the family room, joined by all of my beloved four-footed children who expressed their love and concern for me with their purring, licking, nuzzling, and snuggling.

And as I sat there rubbing their ears and bellies, I remembered fully the details of the dream that had disturbed my peaceful slumbering.

I was on a roller coaster with my beloved. We were laughing, talking, our hair was flying. We were in the front row of the car, speeding along the tracks. I can’t remember whether there were any other people on the ride with us, but I do recall that the air was warm and the sky was a perfectly beautiful blue with a few light clouds. I remember thinking about the sky as the car was climbing up, up, up the track, slowly chugging toward the top.

I carry . . .

Short Stories

Pen and heart I carry him with me everywhere, every day.

He has been with me all these years . . . ever-present, never present.

In my thoughts. In my dreams. In my daydreams. In my hopes, my goals, my triumphs, my failures, my achievements, my near-misses.

In my eyes, in the air that I breathe.

I carry his name on the tip of my tongue, but never dare speak it.

I carry him, the essence of him, the belief in him, the memories of him, the thoughts of him, the smell of him, the longing for him . . . I carry the burden of having let him go, having lost him.

I carry the hope of bumping into him unexpectedly, practicing what I will say, how I will smile. I carry myself with anticipation, walking nonchalantly yet resolutely and confidently . . . just in case.

I carry a heart full to overflowing with love . . . of him, for him, concealed for him, waiting for him . . .

Inspired by the Sunday Scribblings prompt: “I carry”