The Letter (Chapter Three)

The Letter

The ringing telephone startled her. She had been so deep in thought, remembering that night all those years ago when she first began writing about her life, that it took her a few moments to become acclimated. When she looked down at the blank notepad, she again felt the full weight of Dr. Nolan’s assignment.

“Take a message,” she muttered as she heard her own voice emanating from the answering machine in the next room. “I’m busy.”

She got up from the kitchen table and walked over to the sink where she poured her now-cold coffee down the drain.

“Maybe taking a walk will help,” she thought, striding toward the closet for her coat and an umbrella in case the weather report calling for late afternoon rain proved accurate.

As she got into her car and backed it out of the garage, with the notepad tucked into her bag, she knew where she was headed, but resisted consciously contemplating her destination until she arrived there. Turning up the radio, she drove dispassionately, yet purposefully. She knew this was a trip she had been destined to make, but had put off making, for many years.

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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.

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Thanksgiving at Mom’s

Short Stories

Thanksgiving Dinner TableEverything 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.

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