Tess Thompson's Blog, page 13

Blended For Love released today!

I’m excited to announce that Blue Midnight has been included in an anthology – released today. Blended for Love is available in the usual places, including Amazon at: http://amzn.to/1AcSSR1

These are four loves stories, all completely different from one another but I think you’ll enjoy them all. Only 99 cents for the next several days. Download it for a little weekend pleasure.

 

Defining Parenting Moments, Mine Was A Doozy!

I’m delighted to host Carolyn Ridder Aspenson as my guest author today. I love her piece for it’s honesty and hilarity. I was laughing and gasping so much while reading it that my children wanted to know if I could read it to them? Unfortunately, no. We didn’t need a repeat moment of what Carolyn describes. Once you read it, you’ll know what I mean.

As a special treat, she included the first chapter of her novel Unfinished Business at the end of the blog. Give it a go. I wouldn’t be surprised if it sucks you right in and the next thing you know you’re on Amazon ordering it.

Enjoy.

***

Every parent has a defining moment—a moment when they’ve made a mistake so huge they know it’ll haunt them for the rest of their lives. A moment when they can honestly look at themselves in the mirror and say, “Wow, you just royally screwed up your kid.”

I must be special, because I’ve had several.

My son was delivered by cesarean. When he was about five, I showed him my battle scar and explained to him that the doctor used a special tool to cut my tummy open and take him out so he could be a part of our family. I don’t even remember why we discussed it but it was brief and harmless and we moved on to something else without a scratch. At the time I considered it a sweet bonding moment. If I’d only known…

Prior to that discussion he’d been in the habit of sitting outside of my husband’s and my locked bedroom door, crying and knocking to come in. “Mom. Mommy. Momma. Mom. Mommy. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.” He has his imitation of Stewie from family guy down pat.

We aren’t a family of door lockers. We don’t run around naked either but locking the door only happens by my husband and I for one reason…because Mommy and Daddy are having sex.

I don’t remember how many times the angst at the door happened but for the sake of my husband’s ego, let’s say it was a lot. Truth be told, it happened enough in a short time period to require a conversation with my son.

So one night at bedtime, our time to snuggle and talk about our days, I explained to him that the locked door wasn’t anything to be afraid of. I told him that sometimes his mommy and daddy needed alone time but that it never lasted very long and he didn’t have to worry. (I might have said that with a hint of sarcasm, too so let’s hope my husband doesn’t read this!) He asked why it needed to be locked and since I believe it’s important to tell kids the truth, I told him. I told him his mommy and daddy locked the door because they were practicing making babies and that it was something very personal and private. I did not however, tell him the sight of that would likely cause frequent, expensive trips to a psychologist for all three of us.

And it worked!

The next time he knocked on the locked door, I told him we’d be out in a minute and that was that. No crying. No knocking. No sitting by the door imitating Stewie.

That mommy-teaching-her-child-something-important-moment? Nailed it.

Fast-forward a few days. It was bedtime again, that special time for us. That night, like every other night, I told him a story and then, when it was time for me to let him sleep, he dropped the bomb.

The conversation went something like this.

Him: “Mommy, I’m scared.”

Me: “Scared? Scared of what, Little Man?”

Him: “I don’t like you and Daddy practicing making babies.”

Me: “You don’t? How come? That’s how we made you, remember?”

Him: “I know, but it scares me. I don’t like Daddy cutting open your tummy.”

Oh boy.

That mommy-teaching-her-child-something-important-moment? SO DID NOT NAIL IT AFTER ALL.

That night, distraught and feeling like the worst mother ever, I ordered the book, Where Did I Come From? By Peter Mayle and Author Robins. It was probably a little early for my son to understand the real way babies were made but I had to do something if we wanted to keep that door locked. When it arrived, complete with cartoon images that made me only a touch uncomfortable, we sat together, my two older daughters giggling at the pictures in the background and had our first sex education lesson. If you don’t know the book, it’s does a great job of explaining ‘things’, however for about a week after we read it, he walked around saying penis and vagina without reason. His kindergarten teacher was not pleased.

Have you had a defining parent moment? If so, I’d love to hear about it!

 

Carolyn Ridder Aspenson is the Amazon and Barnes & Noble best selling author of Unfinished Business; An Angela Panther Novel, Unbreakable Bonds; An Angela Panther Novel, the contemporary romance novella, The Inn At Laurel Creek and the novella Santa’s Gift, a Cumming Christmas Novella.

An avid fitness buff, Carolyn writes a monthly health and fitness column for Northside Woman Magazine as well as regular weekly news articles for various Atlanta area media outlets. Her work has also been published in several e-zines and blogs.

Carolyn is published through Booktrope Editions.

Buy Carolyn’s books here: Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

carolynridderaspenson.com

http://www.facebook.com/carolynridderaspensonauthor

http://www.twitter.com/awritingwoman

http://www.pinterest.com/carolynridderas/

***

 

Chapter One of Unfinished Business An Angela Panther Novel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

The air in the room felt frigid and sent an icy chill deep into my bones. Searching for comfort, I lay on the rented hospice bed, closed my eyes, and snuggled under Ma’s floral print quilt. I breathed in her scent, a mixture of Dove soap, Calvin Klein Eternity perfume and stale cigarettes. The stench of death lingered in the air, trying hard to take over my senses, but I refused to let it in. Death may have taken my mother, but not her smell. Not yet.

“You little thief, I know what you did now.”

I opened my eyes and searched the room, but other than my Pit Bull, Greyhound mix Gracie, and me, it was empty. Gracie sensed my ever so slight movement, and laid her head back down. I saw my breath, which wouldn’t have been a big deal except it was May, in Georgia. I closed my eyes again.

“I know you can hear me, Angela. Don’t you ignore me.”

I opened my eyes again. “Ma?”

Floating next to the bed, in the same blue nightgown she had on when she died, was my mother, or more likely, some grief induced image of her.

“Ma?” I laughed out loud. “What am I saying? It’s not you. You’re dead.’

The grief induced image spoke. “Of course I’m dead, Angela, but I told you if I could, I’d come back. And I can so, tada, here I am.”

The image floated up in the air, twirled around in a few circles and floated back down.

I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to right my brain or maybe shake loose the crazy, but it was pointless because when I opened my eyes again, the talking image of my mother was still there.

“Oh good grief, stop it. It’s not your head messing with you, Angela. It’s me, your Ma. Now sit up and listen to me. This is important.”

As children we’re conditioned to respond to our parents when they speak to us. We forget it as teenagers, but somewhere between twenty and the birth of our first child, we start acknowledging them again, maybe even believing some of what they tell us. Apparently it was no different when you imagined their ghost speaking to you, too. Crazy maybe, but no different.

I rubbed my eyes. “This is a dream, so I might as well go with it.”

I sat up, straightened my back, plastered a big ol’ smile on my face, because it was a dream and I could be happy the day my mom died, in a dream and said, “Hi Ma, how are you?”

“You ate my damn Hershey bars.”

“Hershey bars? I dream about my dead mother and she talks about Hershey bars. What is that?”

“Don’t you act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Angela.”

“But I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ma.” I shook my head again and thought for sure I was bonkers, talking to an imaginary Ma.

“Oh for the love of God, Angela, my Hershey bars. The ones I hid in the back of my closet.”

Oh. Those Hershey bars, from like, twenty years ago, at least. The ones I did eat.

“How do you know it was me that ate your Hershey bars? That was over twenty years ago.”

The apparition smirked. “I don’t know how I know, actually. I just do. I know about all of the stuff you did, and your brothers too. It’s all in here now.” She pointed to her, slightly transparent head and smirked.

She floated up to the ceiling, spun in a circle, and slowly floated back down. “And look, I’m floating. Bet you wish you could do that, don’t you, Angela? You know, I’d sit but I tried that before and fell right through to the damn basement. And let me tell you, that was not fun. It was creepy, and it scared the crap outta me. And oh, Madone, the dust between your two floors! Good Lord, it was nasty. You need to clean that. No wonder Emily’s always got a snotty nose. She’s allergic.”

“Emily does not always have a snotty nose.” She actually did but I wasn’t going to let Ma have that one.

The apparition started to say something, then scrutinized at the bed. “Ah, Madone, that mattress. That was the most uncomfortable thing I ever slept on, but don’t get me started on that. That’s a conversation for another time.”

Another time?

“And I hated that chair.” She pointed to the one next to the bed. “You should have brought my chair up here instead. I was dying and you wanted me to sit in that chair? What with that uncomfortable bed and ugly chair, my back was killing me.” She smiled at her own joke, but I sat there stunned, and watched the apparition’s lips move, my own mouth gaping, as I tried to get my mind and my eyes to agree on what floated in front of me.

“Ah, Madone. Stop looking at me like that, Angela Frances Palanca. You act like you’ve never seen a ghost.”

“Ma, I haven’t ever seen a ghost, and my name is Angela Panther, not Palanca. You know that.” My mother always called me Angela Palanca, and it drove both my father and me batty. She said I was the closest thing to a true Italian she could create, and felt I deserved the honor of an Italian last name. She never liked Richter, my maiden name, because she said it was too damned German.

“And that recliner of yours was falling apart. I was afraid you’d hurt yourself in it. Besides, it was ugly, and I was sort of embarrassed to put it in the dining room.” I shook my head again. “And you’re not real, you’re in my head. I watched them take your body away, and I know for a fact you weren’t breathing, because I checked.”

Realizing that I was actually having a discussion with someone who could not possibly be real, I pinched myself to wake up from what was clearly some kind of whacked-out dream.

“Stop that, you know you bruise easily. You don’t want to look like a battered wife at my funeral, do you?”

Funeral? I had no intention of talking about my mother’s funeral with a figment of my imagination. I sat for a minute, speechless, which for me was a huge challenge.

“They almost dropped you on the driveway, you know.” I giggled, and then realized what I was doing, and immediately felt guilty, for a second.

Ma scrunched her eyebrows and frowned. “I know. I saw that. You’d think they’d be more careful with my body, what with you standing there and all. There you were, my daughter, watching them take away my lifeless, battered body, and I almost went flying off that cart. I wanted to give them a what for, and believe me, I tried, but I felt strange, all dizzy and lightheaded. Sort of like that time I had those lemon drop drinks at your brother’s wedding. You know, the ones in those little glasses? Ah, that was a fun night. I haven’t danced like that in years. I could have done without the throwing up the next day, though, that’s for sure.”

Lifeless, battered body? What a dramatic apparition I’d imagined.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes and considered pinching myself again, but decided the figment was right, I didn’t want to be all bruised for the funeral.

There I sat, in the middle of the night, feeling wide awake, but clearly dreaming. I considered telling her to stay on topic, seeing as dreams didn’t last very long, and maybe my subconscious needed my dream to process her death but I didn’t. “This is just a dream.” I tried to convince myself the apparition wasn’t real.

She threw her hands up in the air. “Again with the dreaming. It’s not a dream, Angela. You’re awake, and I’m here, in the flesh.” She held her transparent hand up and examined it. “Okay, so not exactly in the flesh, but you know what I mean.”

This wasn’t my mother, I knew this, because my mother died today, in my house, in this bed, in a dining room turned bedroom. I was there. I watched it happen. She had lung cancer, or, as she liked to call it, the big C. And today, as her body slowly shut down, and her mind floated in and out of consciousness, I talked to her. I told her everything I lacked the courage to say before, when she could talk back and acknowledge my fear of losing her. And I kept talking as I watched her chest rise and fall, slower and slower, until it finally stilled. I talked to her as she died, and because I still had so much more to say, I kept talking for hours after her body shut down. I told her how much I loved her, how much she impacted my life. I told her how much she drove me absolutely crazy, and yet I couldn’t imagine my life without her.

So this wasn’t Ma, couldn’t possibly be. “You’re dead.”

The figment of my imagination shook her head and frowned, then moved closer, and looked me straight in the eye. I could see through her to the candelabra on the wall. Wow, it was dusty. When was it last dusted?

“Of course I’m dead, Angela. I’m a ghost.”

I shook my head, trying hard not to believe her, but I just didn’t feel like I was sleeping, so God help me, I did.

My name is Angela Panther and I see dead people. Well, one dead person, that is, and frankly, one was enough..

###

“Honey, it’s time to wake up.” My husband, Jake, shook me softly. “We have to go to the funeral home. Come on, your brothers will be there soon. Wake up.” He shook me a little harder.

I sat up. “Where’s Ma?”

He studied me, his expression a mix of sadness and compassion. “I know this is hard but it’s going to be okay.” He hugged me and it felt good, comforting. I let him hold me a little longer, and then I remembered the night before.

“No,” I told him, pulled away, and rubbed the sleep fog from my eyes. “Ma. She was here. Last night. I know she’s dead, but she was here. I saw her.” I grabbed his shoulders, trying to show him how serious I was and whispered, “She told me she’s a ghost.”

His eyes widened and all of the sadness and compassion flew right out the dining room window. Jake was a fantabulous husband, and supported me in ways that often tried his patience, but to see the gray area of what he considered to be only black and white was asking too much. Fantabulous and all, he had his limits.

“Ang, it wasn’t Fran. It was a dream. I’ve read that kind of stuff happens. People dream about the person who died and think it’s real.” He made a small attempt at comforting coos, but they just sounded like our cat before she died.

I pushed away from him and got up. “Stop it. You sound like a sick cat, and I need coffee.” My mind barely worked without a good night’s sleep, but without coffee, even the simplest conversations were practically impossible. Besides, it wasn’t the time to get into a debate about the hereafter. I walked to the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee and said a silent thank you to Jake for making a pot. I would have said it out loud but I was a little miffed at him for discounting my ghostly experience.

Jake was kind enough to get our two kids, Emily and Josh, off to school while I slept. I felt a sense of relief for not having to deal with them and then felt a little guilty for that. They left me a handmade card near the coffeepot knowing I’d be sure to see it there. It had red hearts and sad faces drawn all over the front, most likely by Josh, because he drew eyes with eyelashes. The inside of it read, “We’re sorry for your loss. We loved Grandma and miss her.”

They weren’t here last night. I knew it was Ma’s last day, and Jake and I didn’t want them to see her die, so we made arrangements for them to spend the evening with friends. Jake picked them up after the funeral home took Ma. I lacked the energy and courage to talk to them, so Jake asked them to give me some alone time.

The card was sweet, and I got a lump in my throat just reading it even though I was sure they’d never work for Hallmark.

“What time is it?” I asked, and then checked the clock. “It’s ten a.m. What the – we have to be at the funeral home at eleven fifteen.” I finished pouring my coffee, took a huge gulp, and cursed myself as it burned my throat, then rushed upstairs to get ready.

We arrived at the funeral home just before eleven fifteen. My long, blond hair was pulled into a ponytail since I didn’t have time to style it. I didn’t have on an ounce of makeup and was dressed like a typical soccer mom heading to a yoga class. Normally I wouldn’t go to an appointment like that but considering the fact that my mother just died, I didn’t really give a crap.

We walked in through the front doors into a sitting area I’m sure was meant to seem comforting and inviting but instead felt like a grandparents’ family room, old fashioned and overstuffed. The couch was a ridiculously huge, twenty years outdated, 1980s floral print of mauve and gray, flanked with humongous pillows in matching solid colors. There were two matching and equally uncomfortable looking chairs and ugly, ornate tables that didn’t match, intermixed with the seating. A few magazines and tissue boxes sat on the tables. I grabbed a couple tissues just in case I needed them later. Overhead, soft music played, and I was sure they thought it made someone in my position feel better, but mostly it was just annoying.

Carnations in various colors sat in vases on stands around the lobby, attacking my nasal passages like an old woman drenched in White Diamonds perfume. Almost instantly I had a sensory overload headache. The entire room smacked of old people, but I guess it should since it was really mostly old people who died. Jake crinkled his nose at the smells, too. We both moved quickly as we followed the signs to the assistant funeral director’s office, almost like we were running from a skunk. I silenced my cell phone, knowing my best friend, Mel, would probably text. I’d talked to her just after Ma passed but not since. I was sure she’d check on me sooner rather than later.

Before Ma died, we talked about what she wanted, and I promised her I’d honor her requests. They were simple. She wanted to be cremated and buried with my grandparents in Chicago. Since we lived in the suburbs of Atlanta, we’d have her body cremated here but her memorial and burial would be handled separately.

My brothers, John and Paul, were already in the assistant director’s office. There was a spread of coffee and its fixings set out on the conference table, and I made a beeline for it. I’d have an IV of caffeine inserted into my wrist if it were socially acceptable. Actually, forget socially acceptable. I’d do it even if it weren’t. Coffee for me was like sex to a twenty-year-old man – never too much and never too often.

My oldest brother John lived nearby, and was with Ma and me when she passed. Paul lived in Indiana and didn’t make it here in time to say goodbye. I could see the angst and regret on his face. I said hi, hugged both of them, and turned toward my chair so I wouldn’t cry. Crying in front of my brothers made me appear weak and I refused to let that happen.

“Ma wanted to be cremated and buried with her parents,” I told the assistant funeral director, a short, squat man, with a bad comb-over and a blue paisley tie that didn’t quite fit over a mid-section that rivaled Santa’s.

“Yes, your brothers told me,” said Comb-over. “It is our policy to return the remains to the loved ones for proper burial if our services are not being used.”

We all nodded in agreement, and then Paul asked Comb-over if he could see our mother.

Comb-over gave us what must have been his really sympathetic face. “Oh, no. No. I’m sorry. It is against our policy to allow family back into the crematorium. You understand.”

Paul nodded his understanding.

Seriously?

“Excuse me. My brother wasn’t able to see our mom before she died. He lives out of state and couldn’t get here, so I’m sure you can make an exception. I mean, it is our mother and we are paying you after all.”

Jake smirked in my direction, liking my passive aggressive technique, and I gave him a quick smile.

“Well. ” Comb-over back-pedaled. “I’ll see what I can do.” He then gave us what was obviously his, I am not making enough money for this job face, excused himself and closed the door behind him. A chill filled the air, and I hugged my arms to my chest for warmth.

My brother’s mouths gaped. “Well, it’s a stupid rule and someone had to call him on it.”

Paul nodded. “Thanks.”

I nodded and then saw my mother floating behind him, smiling, too. I shook my head to clear the image but it didn’t work. She was still there.

“You’re such a good girl. I knew you loved your brother.”

“Uh, I guess I do.”

Paul tilted his head. “You guess you do what?”

Well, crap. For a brief second I considered saying, sorry I was talking to the ghost of our mother, who, by the way, is floating behind you, but instead went with, “Look behind you,” as I pointed behind them.

They did. “What?” Paul asked.

Ma winked at me and laughed. They couldn’t see her.

“Oh, nothing. I thought there was a spider or something on the wall, sorry.”

Probably it wasn’t a good time to tell my brothers I could see our dead mother and I wasn’t sure there would ever be a good time for something of that nature.

Paul started to say something again, but Comb-over walked back in. The man may have been a fashion nightmare, but his timing was impeccable. He coughed lightly and straightened his tie. “We don’t normally allow anyone into the crematorium, but given the circumstances, we’ll make an exception.”

We. Uh huh. We, as in the big boss, I bet. I smiled my I won smile and thanked him. Comb-over explained since our mother was being cremated, they didn’t prepare her body as they would for a traditional burial. I assumed that meant she’s not made up and nodded my understanding. He walked over to the closed door behind my brothers and walked right through my mother.

She shuddered. “Oh, Madone, that was creepy.”

I concentrated on the wall and searched for the imaginary spider and tried to ignore her.

Through the doorway I saw my mother lying on a gurney, the mother that wasn’t floating in the room with me, that is. My eyes shot back and forth between the horizontal Ma and the floating Ma. This was all a little confusing. First I had one Ma, and then she died. Now I had a dead Ma and a ghost Ma. If they both started talking to me, I’d get right up and drive myself straight to the loony bin. I stood up and shook off the crazy. “Ah, Paul, you can go first.” He did.

The fact that I took control of the meeting was not lost on me. As the youngest of the siblings, my brothers always considered me the baby, never quite aging me past a toddler in their mind so for them to acquiesce authority in this situation was surprising. I wrote it off to their shock and grief at losing Ma and expected the newfound respect to burn out quicker than a birthday candle. But I would be lying if I didn’t admit to enjoying it just a little.

We all said our goodbyes to my mother. I couldn’t hear their private whispered words, but I could hear Ma responding. Not the Ma lying on the gurney, the ghost one. As I said, it was confusing. Like the loud Italian woman she was in life, her raspy, I’ve had one thousand too many cigarettes, voice enveloped the room, for me at least, since apparently I was the only one who could hear her. “Oh Pauly, it’s okay. I’m not mad that you weren’t here. Don’t be upset. It’s okay.”

I always knew he was her favorite.

Paul and I haven’t always had the smoothest of relationships. In fact, as a child he wanted me dead. No, really. He tried so hard to make it happen he actually pushed me in front of slow moving cars three times. I was lucky to suffer only emotional, not physical, damage. Attempted murders aside, my heart ached for him now. The guilt of not being there when Ma passed would haunt him forever, though I couldn’t help but wonder if that was easier than being haunted by her ghost.

###

An hour later, the four of us sat with coffee in hand, at Starbucks. Coffee made everything seem better, if only a little. Before we left the funeral home, Paul asked Comb-over to let us know when Ma’s body was cremated. I preferred not to know, but everyone handles death differently and Paul needed what he needed so I didn’t argue. Admittedly, backing away from an argument with Paul was a new thing for me. Ma’s death had really messed with my brain.

We were discussing the arrangements of her burial when I got the call. Comb-over told me they’d started, and as I nodded to Jake and my brothers, a heavy sadness filled the air.

I disconnected from the call and stayed on task. “Okay. When should we go to Chicago?”

“That’s a good question,” John, the over thinker of us siblings, said. “I’ll call the cemetery later today and find out if we can bury Mom with Grandma and Grandpa. If they won’t let us, we’ll have to figure out what else to do. I was thinking maybe we could each take a portion of her remains and do something with our kids to honor her.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. That was not going to happen. I promised Ma I’d do this for her and I’ll be damned if I didn’t do it right. Especially since she was haunting me. There was no way I would to spend the rest of my waking days with the ghost of my mother pissed off because we didn’t honor her final wish. No way.

“It’s okay,” I blurted out before Paul agreed with John. “Ma was worried about the same thing, so we called the cemetery a few weeks ago and found out that it’s fine.” I took a quick breath and hoped God wouldn’t strike me dead for lying.

“They told me that as long as we’re not getting a stone, the plots are ours to do with as we please. Except for digging up our grandparents, that is.” I checked the sky, but still no lightning. Phew.

My brothers nodded. “Okay.”

Dodged that bullet. What’s wrong with a few little lies? This was what Ma wanted and eventually I’d tell them the truth, once she was buried and we were on our way home. Or maybe next year. What’s the saying? Ask for forgiveness, not permission. That’s what I’d do, eventually.

I offered to make the memorial arrangements even though we all knew they’d have asked me to do it anyway.

I filled them in on my call to our cousin. “I already called Roxanne, who said she’d make the rounds of calls, and since the funeral home here said they would put the obituary in the Chicago papers, that’s covered. Does the weekend after next work? That gives us all time to plan accordingly.”

“I don’t see a problem with that, but I’ll have to check with Elizabeth and see what her schedule is,” John said.

Jake nodded in agreement with his eyes still glued to the screen of his iPhone.

Paul nodded too. “Let’s go through all of our pictures of Mom. I can make a video with music, and we can show it at her memorial.”

We all agreed that was a great idea and made plans to confirm the date over email by tonight. My brothers left Jake and me there to share our addiction to the warm, smooth taste of coffee. We got refills before we headed home, too.

The rest of the day I was on autopilot and truth be told I couldn’t remember much of it. One minute Jake and I were getting coffee and the next it was after ten p.m. I kissed Jake goodnight and went upstairs and checked on the kids, who were already blissfully sound asleep.

“It’s done,” I texted Mel after I settled under the covers.

“I’m sorry,” she texted back. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m okay. Going to bed. I’m tired.”

“K. I’m here if you need me. (HUGS).”

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Unexpected Gift

A position from my couch, on a clear day, yields a view of the cascades. This morning, as I sit with my coffee, warm in my thick, blue robe, they are black against a burgeoning blue. A sunny, cold day here in the foothills – an unexpected bonus,  a stolen gift. We expect only gray in December here in Seattle. We’re resigned. Stoic. And yet, here is a day like today, so clear I can see all the way to Mount Baker.

Resignation. Acceptance. We all have a lot of that in our lives. We want things that do not come. We fail. People let us down. The rain continues to fall. As adults we understand that things are not perfect. There are consequences. We live in green, therefore we must accept the rain. Of course, we tell one another, wet for green. But sometimes, like this week, a reprieve comes, and the glorious mountains decorated with newly fallen snow give way to the smudge of white and gray that we see through drops of rain.

Sometimes the unexpected comes. Sometimes a gift.

In the mornings, after one child is off to her life, with flute, lunchbox, backpack in hand, and while the smallest of my brood continues to slumber with blankets wrapped this way and that, blond hair strewn about her pillow, I sit with my coffee, savoring the world. A large window allows the outside to meet the inside from my spot on the couch, and how I love it, this view, this moment.

The sky changes as my coffee grows lukewarm. Yellow light creeps up from behind the mountain, revealing the scattered snow, crevices and dips, nuances that only moments ago could not be seen. The cats play in the window. Lights on our Christmas tree sparkle, and the decorations each bring a memory. The muses come, whispering to me for later, when I will sit at my desk and search for words in which to tell a story.

Ordinary moments in my ordinary life. And yet, these moments of solitude, of beauty are the ones that awaken a creative life. We must be still if the muses are to come. The business of this life will come later and I will meet those moments too, for they bring their own joys: exercise, laughter with friends, homework with the girls, my work, a new recipe for skirt steak. But for now I will take it all in, still stunned with childlike awe by how lovely this world is both inside and outside my window.

Take it in. Feed your soul. See the beauty, for it, like love, is what matters most.

The beauty of your life is there for us, an unexpected gift when we least expect it. But we must open our eyes and become still so that it might humble us, open us to love, turn our yearning hearts away from the idea of scarcity to abundance. It’s all there, waiting.

 

 

The Fighter

After several miscarriages, my first daughter, Ella Caroline, came to me almost twelve years ago. I have a heart-shaped uterus, an ailment that makes it hard for a fertilized egg to receive a proper blood supply. Yes, there is such a thing, as strange as it sounds. A fighter from the beginning, Ella hung in there, despite the likelihood of miscarriage. Not only had she remained intact, she subsequently kicked my uterus into the proper shape so that her sister could make it to me three years later.

Two years ago Ella was in fourth grade. Her father and I had separated at the end of the summer and all of us were reeling with the changes such a great loss brings. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t remember things I should. I managed to keep the children clothed, fed and got them to school on time, but the effort was like moving through mud. Shaken and guilty already, that November I went to Ella’s school conference. She was failing almost every subject, her teacher informed me.

“I think something’s wrong,” the teacher said.

My silent scream – yes, something is wrong.

For years I’d known something wasn’t right. I just didn’t know what. Although obviously intelligent and gifted, she struggled academically. She was late to read and spelling retention was impossible. Math was easier but not as it should be, given the way I observed her logical mind putting things together. I was flabbergasted each year at conferences that not only was she not at the top of the class, she was not even considered average. The conferences I expected never happened. They did not tell me how intelligent, insightful, and creative she was. Instead, they told me she was quiet and well-behaved but disengaged, detached, distracted, disinterested. “It’s like she’s given up,” he fourth grade teacher said, as I fought back tears.

No words have ever hurt as much.

But at least, for the first time, her teacher agreed with me that something wasn’t right. She suggested I get her tested for learning disabilities.

I cried that day in the school parking lot. Then I called my parents and cried some more. But afterwards, I went into action mode. I called our pediatrician and set up testing. A month later – it was several weeks before Christmas – she was diagnosed with ADD and prescribed a drug that our doctor felt might help her. “You’ll know if it’s the right diagnosis and medicine because she’ll immediately start doing better in school,” our doctor assured me.

The first day she took the drug, Ella came home from school, and said, “Mom, the buzzing stopped.”

Buzzing? My God, I thought. There was buzzing?

How did I not know this? What kind of mother was I?

When the doctor suggested medication, I did not hesitate. I did not listen to anyone who told me that doctors over-medicate children. I did not listen to anyone but my own mother instincts. I knew my child. Something was wrong. I knew she was gifted, creative and intelligent. I knew she was a fighter who would never give up because I’d looked into her eyes the day she was born.

It turns out I was right. And guess what? My doctor was right too. The drug worked. We know because she started doing better in school.

Today, I attended her sixth grade conferences, meeting with her math, language arts and science teachers. We had the conversations I always expected to have. Straight A’s. A star. A sweetheart. One of my best students. Stays on task. Great in groups. A giving lab partner. A leader. Asks questions when she needs to. Mature for her age. An example for the other students. Nothing for you to worry about.

Nothing for you to worry about.

No words have ever been sweeter.

My mother instincts had told me from the beginning of her school years that something was off, but I never, not once, stopped believing in her, no matter what the reports said. I knew my daughter was in there, behind the buzzing. I never stopped feeling flabbergasted about her lack of progress. Until today. Today, I nodded my head, and said, “It’s great to hear, given where we’ve come from.” When I explained what I meant, it was the teachers who were flabbergasted. “I would never have thought she struggled in school,” they all said.

I walked out of those conferences today feeling like the the day I was accepted to USC Drama School – grateful, humbled, happy. We beat the odds, I thought. My little fighter is thriving. I immediately texted several friends with the news, standing in the middle of the common area of the middle school, fighting tears of joy this time.

My baby girl fought and won.

Despite all the ways mothers feel we aren’t enough, or are too much, or everything in between, the truth is we are. No one knows our children like we do. No one studies them like we do. No one loves them like we do. Our instincts, gifts from God, will prevail, despite the odds.

As I finish this post, Paul Simon’s, “The Boxer” comes on my Pandora station. Yes, the fighter still remains.

And a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminders

Of ev’ry glove that laid him down

And cut him till he cried out

In his anger and his shame,

“I am leaving, I am leaving.”

But the fighter still remains

Miracles Take a Little Time

Even miracles take a little time. ~ The Fairy Godmother

In 2008 I attended a reunion of my mother’s family. While there I heard stories from my mother’s cousins about their grandmother, my great-grandmother, Beatrice Rains. Growing up I had often heard the stories of her legendary discipline and talents from my mother. Trained as a concert pianist, Beatrice gave up a career in music to marry and move to the south from upstate New York. Regardless, she continued to practice five hours a day while raising three children, two of which were twins, and taking care of a small farm and her banker husband. The story of this feat inspired me over the years, especially as I embarked on my own journey as an artist. I thought of her often, knowing how disciplined one must be to become good at your chosen craft, as the practicalities of life continue forth with little regard for our passions.

As I write this, my children are upstairs, pouting because I’ve delayed Christmas decorating so that I might finish edits and write this blog piece. My day has been long already. I spent the morning cleaning house, cooking breakfast, doing laundry, all the while itching to write – the usual struggle of managing the machinations of daily life with small children while trying to grow as a writer and make a living doing so. This is not a complaint. I love my children. I love my work. This is simply the life of any mother. That said, I think of Beatrice, managing it all in her days. It was harder, no doubt, than my situation: no microwave, no packaged bread, cooking full meals from scratch in the heat of an Alabama day.

Despite the stories I already knew about her, my mother’s cousins told me that she’d also dabbled in writing. This I did not know, but was thrilled to hear, of course. When I returned home, my mother’s cousin Arlene sent me copies of letters and essays written by Beatrice. I cannot say exactly the moment the idea came to me, but something in those words sparked an idea for a novel. I mulled it over in my mind for probably a year, while simultaneously working on Riversong. At some point, I can’t remember exactly, I began to write it. Emerson was three years old then. She’s eight now. Since then, “Duet for Three Hands” has been rewritten about ten times, had countless readers, countless feedback. I believed it to be my best work. I thought it was ready for publication. But the truth was, it wasn’t quite right. People I trusted agreed. It was not ready, still, no matter how hard I worked at it. So it went into the proverbial drawer. I did not touch it for almost two years, trusting finally that when it was time, I would know.

This is not like me. This letting go. This patience. I am a person of action. I decide what I want and then I do it. I do the work no matter how difficult, with discipline and commitment. I pursue the dream. I take great risks. When I hear, “you’re not good enough”, “you can’t do that”, I say, watch me. Many times in my creative life I’ve been the dark horse, the one no one believed in, until I sprinted over the finish line.

But this time, I let go. I gave it to God. I wrote five other books. I put my butt in seat every day. And something happened. I got better. Those 10,000 hours they speak of in the “Outliers”? That was me, hours and hours at this desk, honing a craft. Am I the best writer in the world? No. Am I as good as I will be ten years from now? Hopefully not. Am I better than five years ago? Yes.

Last summer, I felt a nudge, what I believe was the quiet voice of God, telling me it was time to take it out of the drawer. So I did. But what I found in that drawer surprised me. It was not my best work, as I’d believed. It was a great story but the writing was weak. It just was. This is why, I thought, the dreams I had for it did not happen. It wasn’t time then and now it is.

After notes from my editor, I rewrote it again. And that rewrite hurt, friends. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I wasn’t sure I could, actually. There were several teary phone calls to Katherine Sears, co-founder of Booktrope, to talk me off the writer’s ledge. Without her, the book might be back in the drawer.

I received the latest draft back from my editor a few days ago. With some minor notes and the usual edit type stuff at this point in the process, we agreed this is the version. I am almost done. This labor of love is almost done. I had to say that twice.

So, as I tend to do, I’ve been thinking about all this, trying to learn from the journey. I know this to be true – sometimes we have to let go. In our work, in our relationships, even our dreams we fight so hard for – sometimes we just have to unclasp our grip and let them flutter into the wind. We cannot force something before its time. We can’t make anyone love us if they don’t. We can’t bring a dream to fruition just by the force of our will. Instead we must accept that our longings, our dreams warp and twist and become new or changed or delayed. It is our job to do the work, to wish, to dream, of course. But perhaps it’s also our job to sometimes put something in the drawer and throw our love into other work, or other relationships, or the unexpected that came along when we were looking the other way. When the time is right, we will know. And, as they say, when we look back, we’ll see why that something we fought so hard for wasn’t meant to be. What came instead was so much better.

Molasses and Straw

On Sunday two of my best girlfriends and their children gather at my home for the Seahawks game. There are five little girls between us. Five, not four, as we had the year before. Since last football season Julia* has found a new love. With this man made of gentleness and warmth, this man man who makes my friend’s eyes shine, comes a little girl, a step-sister for Julia’s young daughter. They’re a striking pair, these little girls, one with straight hair the color of autumn grass in the sunlight, the other with light brown curls framing a round face. These precious girls of straw and molasses are five and six, a year apart. They call one another sister.

I sit on the beanbag in my family room watching the game. The little girls pounce on me, looking for tickles and play. I soak them in, these beautiful creatures that smell of sunshine and powder, as their soft hair floats across my face.

In two days they will travel with their parents to Hawaii. “I’m packing for four now,” Julia texted me earlier in the week.

I’m packing for four now. Four when there were only two.

What a difference a year can make.

Ah, the cynics say. But this will never work. Blended families and ex-spouses. How impossible it will be.

“She asked me to lunch,” says Julia, when the children go upstairs to play. She, is the ex-wife. Yes, the ex-wfie and Julia met, like adults, for lunch to talk about how to make all of this work so that every member of this new blended family can breathe easily. They were generous, kind, thankful, putting the little molasses girl before their own insecurities or petty jealousies. These are mothers, I think, as I hear the story. The real kind. Yes, this is how mothers do it. No matter that our families are a little blurry or slightly askew, we make it work. When a woman loves, she pulls resources from inside like a magician with a never-ending ribbon hidden up his sleeve.

On Monday, in my Facebook feed, a friend posts a study about what makes marriages last. Two elements, the study suggests: kindness and generosity. Well, of course, I think.

Surely this is true for all relationships, not just romantic partnerships? Love works between two people when we’re kinder than we think we can be, given our insecurities and fear of rejection. Relationships flourish when we’re more generous than we want to be what with our grasping and worries. If I give more, I have less, we might think. And kindness? I can be kind if someone else is first, we might bargain with ourselves. Because we don’t always feel kind. We don’t always feel generous. Many times we feel small and petty. Insecure and angry. It’s to be expected, we think. Look at what we’ve been through! The damage done to us! We should be guarded and greedy, not loving and giving. Given our battles, our pasts, the scars we want to hide but are closer to the surface than we thought – we cannot be kind, we cannot be generous.

Oh, but we can.

I know, because kindness is all around me.

After a blog piece from several weeks ago, comes a text from a friend. “I’ll take you to find jeans.” That was all. Just a simple sentence. A small act of kindness in this harsh world.

After last week’s post, I received a note from another friend. Divorced and raising kids, he thanked me for writing honestly about dating after divorce, as it made him feel less alone. He ended his note with, “You are a badass, Tess, and braver than I will ever be.” He didn’t have to add that last part. It was simply generous and had the power to make me feel as if his words were true.

I could go on about the daily kindnesses given me. As I write this, I wonder, do I give enough in return?

Last night the wind blows harsh, whining and roaring against my house. In the morning, the sky is blue, the branches of the trees bare where there were scarlet leaves just yesterday. Changes, the world always in motion. Time goes by. What a difference a year can make. I think of this for myself too. Stay hopeful. In a year, who knows? There might be someone there when I turn from the window who understands how I mourn the leaves. He might remind me – They come again. Every year they come.

Later, I stumble through our morning ritual, making scrambled eggs and bacon for Emerson, despite a head cold that’s making me sluggish. She chatters away, unaware of my weariness. Then, between bites of bacon, “Mommy, I’m so glad you’re my mommy.”

It stops me every time. How kind her little heart is. How generous.

We worry so, all parents, whether divorced or married. Will our children be all right? Have I prepared them for the world? Have I taught them to be strong, resourceful, kind, generous?

We can’t know for certain, but we know this: teaching does not come from telling, but from our actions. We teach our children how to be kind and generous by being so ourselves.

So Julia and her blended family of molasses and straw? They will be just fine. The cynics, the darkness seekers, the naysayers, are no match for mothers. No, mothers keep pulling that endless ribbon from their hearts, strong and stronger, no matter the season.

It will be enough.

And someday, the little girls of molasses and straw will do as they have learned from their mothers. Kindness and generosity. And it will be enough.

* Name changed to protect the innocent.

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Hope and a Full-length Mirror

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all -” Emily Dickinson

Tuesday afternoon I dress for a coffee date with a man. It’s a first date, if you can call it that, as I’ve never met him in person, only exchanged emails. His email was sweet and well-written – I won’t go into the details but he went to a lot of trouble to get my attention. We appear to have a lot in common. His pictures show a handsome, age-appropriate man. Also, it was obvious he actually read my profile as opposed to just looking at my photographs and sending a note like, “hey baby, your sexy” (yes, your not you’re) like the 77 others I’d received since putting my profile up the week before.

Because of all this, I sacrifice writing time and agree to meet him for coffee. All I can think is, please don’t be a liar.



I do not have a full-lenght mirror so I stand on a footstool in my bathroom, perched precariously on the top step, surveying my outfit. On the bed behind me are the discards: a dress that gapped at the chest, jeans I decided made my butt look big, a blouse that felt scratchy. I’ve ended up with a short black skirt with tights and boots, and a soft sweater I found on the clearance rack last winter. A $14 sweater no one else wanted and boots from three seasons ago. Kind of like me, I think.

As I turn on the footstool, I almost fall. God, I hate this, I think. It’s a perpetual audition or job interview, this dating experience in my forties. I never thought I’d be here again, having paid my dues all through my twenties with liars and cheats and Peter Pans who refused to grow up. Then, at thirty-one, came my happy ending. Or, so I thought. But my dreams were false. The marriage didn’t work and our subsequent divorce robbed me of several layers of skin, leaving me with flesh and bone exposed to the elements. I’m vulnerable and frightened and tender-hearted.

And I’m forty-five, going on another first date.

I started dating about eight months after the split from my ex-husband. Encouraged by family and friends, I try online dating. This is how it’s done now, they all assured me. Since then, in my ever-hopeful and trusting way I’ve dated liars and cheats and players and crazies. I’ve genuinely cared for several men that I actually thought genuinely cared for me. Unfortunately, they were damaged in ways not at first evident. But, as the truth always does, their dysfunction and lies surfaced eventually. As my friend Jesse said each time. “You dodged a bullet with that one.”

Despite the dodged bullets, each experience changed me. I hate that this is true, but the trusting and warm woman I once was is now chipped and cracked like the china I inherited from my grandmother. It’s the lies, mostly, that did it. This high tech world we live in makes it easy to lie, easy to charm, easy to run double lives, or triple lives. So now I’m left skittish and untrusting, looking for untruths and dysfunction – trying to discern the cruelty that will come if I let my guard down before I let my guard down. Nice girls like me? Not made for this world filled with players and cheaters. It turns us into bitter, suspicious cat ladies. I hate it. I really do.

I’ve given up many, many times. No more dating, I tell my friends. I’m happy with my work and my kids and my family and friends. Life is good.

I’ve been on hiatus, concentrating on my work, friends, and my beautiful children. These last months I’ve reflected upon my choices and examined how my own behavior played a part. I see clearly when and how I overlooked red flags, made excuses for behavior and believed their stories when I shouldn’t have. But there’s also this – the men I’ve dated behaved badly. That’s just the truth.

I’ve vowed to myself and friends and my mother that I will never again compromise or lower my standards. In these past months, I’ve become really comfortable with the idea of being alone for the rest of my life. I know you all know this, but it’s better to be alone than with a man with so much baggage he can’t possibly lift a hammer to hang a full-length mirror in your bedroom.

But then, I look around me. I see happy marriages. I see true partnerships of couples who are both lovers and best friends. I see marriage proposals and anniversaries. I attend weddings of soul mates. And I think, why can’t I have that too? I’m an interesting, successful and loving woman. I have so much to give to the right person. Why not me?

So hope begins again. I muster the courage to admit to myself the truth. I want love in my life. I want a man to grow old with. I want a sweetheart who will hang a full-length mirror in my bedroom so I don’t have to stand on a footstool. So I try. I go back online. I put myself out there for possible judgement, rejection, hurt. Ultimately, my desire for love outweighs my fear.

So now on a rainy day in late October, I stand on a footstool in my bathroom looking at my reflection and cringe. I’ve had two children, my face is thin and etched with fine lines. I don’t have long, flowing hair or long legs. My breasts are real. And yeah, I’ve nursed two babies. I’m flawed inside and out. This is as good as I can look, as good as I can be. Probably it will not be good enough. But I have to try.

I get in my car to drive to Starbucks and think, maybe, just perhaps, this man will be kind, generous, sensitive and honest. Maybe something about me will move him, shift his heart a little to make room for love, despite what has come before. Perhaps something about him will move me, will shift my heart to forget the pain of the last five years and fill in those cracks made from mendacity. Maybe our collective baggage will fit together. Maybe he’ll be able to love and accept an absentminded, overly sensitive writer who loves movies that make her cry, soft jeans, red wine, and spooning on the couch while binge-watching BBC shows on Netflix. Maybe he’ll see that my vulnerability, my soft heart, my bravery are a gift, not a fault. Maybe…just maybe.

I open the door to Starbucks one more time. The smell of coffee and hope greet me.

Hope, perched in my soul.

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Love In These Uncertain Times

Monday I sit in the lobby of the Honda dealership, waiting for my car. A flat tire has delayed writing for the day. I’ve brought a book to read and a yogurt to eat but find I’m distracted by a young father and his two little girls, a baby feeding from a bottle and an older sibling I guess to be about three. They’re blond and three years apart like my girls. I remember with painful ease and piercing clarity those years. I can still feel Emerson in my arms with just a fleeting glance at the father and his baby. When the little girl wanders over to the fish tank and begins to chatter about Nemo, I have to turn away. It hurts, you see, now, knowing I will never have it back, that time, that little girl face and those little girl curls around my finger.

It feels an instant ago that Ella watched “Nemo” every morning for an entire year, drinking milk from her sippy cup, her sapphire blue eyes glued to the wayward Nemo and forgetful Dora. And yet, as I think of sending her off to sixth grade this very morning in the pouring rain and the dark, her headlamp to guide her way instead of my lap and Nemo, it seems a lifetime ago. At eleven, Ella is high top sneakers and jeans and youtube videos and school dances. In her eyes I see the beginning of a deeper understanding of the world with all its complex mingling of beauty and tragedy.

I feel my age then, on the couch in the Honda dealership. I can see the circles under my eyes and crows feet at my eyes without a mirror, watching the unlined father in front of me. I’m tired, suddenly. The pain of the last several years have aged me, have chipped away at my youthful exuberance. I am no longer a young mother but rather a weary middle-aged woman facing each day with little more than a prayer as I send my precious girls into this frightening world of school shootings and war and global climate change.

Today, photographs of my friends’ children in their costumes flood my Facebook feed. Each one makes me smile. They also remind me of the turning days that will ultimately lead to the time when my children will no longer trick or treat. Tonight they will not wear the fluffy animal costumes I dressed them in as babies and toddlers. No, tonight they are a fortune teller and a alternate reality Little Red Riding Hood. Nothing marks time like children, with their obvious and constant changes.

This elusive concept of time has always bewildered me. How is a moment here and then gone? Where does it go? How is it we can move through time and space without any moments of pause? Why is it we cannot stop the clock and bask as long as we like? Of course it’s a ridiculous thing to hope for. Time moves forward. We’re taught to stay in the moment, that healthy people live in that space, but surely remembering cannot be pushed aside completely?

But, as parents and daughters and sons, sisters and brothers, friends, we mourn the passing of time, for it leads us further away from now to the time when we will inevitably have to say goodbye to one another. We know, having suffered painful losses already, that this is true. Some of us know we will meet again. Others aren’t so sure. Regardless, loss is a pain that cannot be assuaged, even by time.

So, of course, there is only one choice. Love one another as hard as we can now, without thought of the future that will eventually pull us apart. Death and taxes – the only things we’re sure of in an uncertain time. And love. Yes, this too. We’re certain it exists when we gaze into one another’s eyes. It is the only thing that matters. We must hold onto to it with both hands. We must fight for it, believe in it, cherish it.

They say, at the end, if we’re lucky enough to live to old age, we are left with only our memories. Do they make us smile then? Can we relive them without the ache that accompanies us when we’re still fully living, fighting and breathing alongside our ambitions and hopes and fears?

I don’t know the answer, of course. I know only that tonight on this Hallow’s Eve I will take photographs of my girls in their costumes that will someday soon only be a memory. And I will love them, knowing that time is not my friend but rather a reality that makes any given moment all that more precious.

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And What of Hope?

Monday I wake to the sound of rain hitting the roof. I stay in bed for a moment, the familiar sound a comfort like my daughters’ laughter or my mother’s voice. The cats are nestled near my feet, purring, like guitar strums to the rain’s drum. Emerson slumbers still, having made her way into my bed with her little girl nightmares and hair that smells of flowers. I wish to remain smelling her hair, and listening to the rain, but there are lunches to make, kisses to give, books to write. I get up and in the dark, I reach for my robe, padding across the hallway to wake Ella, the rain keeping time with the beating of my heart. The cats follow. They know of the morning and that it must be met.

After I usher my eldest out into that drumming rain and darkness I sit in the brown leather chair next to the black table piled high with books. I sip my coffee and watch the light change from black to grey. I think of my children, of the grocery list, of the class later at the gym, of Bliss, my new character who feels like a sister already. I think, is this all there will be? The children and my work and my passions? Should it be enough? Is it wrong, still, after all that’s passed, to wish for a partner to hold hands with as the light changes? Dare I hope?

I haven’t allowed hope to exist for some time now. I put myself in the drawer where I cannot be hurt. I’ve just lived in the moment with gratitude, with purpose, for the girls and my work and the friends who show up. An ease, a peace, has settled in that space between my shoulder blades.

And what of hope, I wonder then. How, in the darkness of an autumn morning, do we know that daylight will come again? We cannot see or feel the world in its continuous tilt towards the sun, yet we’re moving towards it just the same. Hope and faith and everything that falls between is in our DNA, in our souls. We are meant to live knowing that at any moment something wondrous could happen.

I dismiss the thoughts and wake Emerson, feeding her eggs and toast and combing her hair before we head out into the rain. Regardless of what is to come or not come, this is now and now is her blue eyes staring at me from the back seat as she chatters. And then we arrive and she spills out of the car and heads across the playground. I watch her, this gift from God, this keeper of my heart.

Thursday comes. I drive to the outlet mall in the slanting rain in my ever hopeful search for a that pair of jeans that fits just right. So far it is elusive, but still I hope.

I’m driving home with several pairs of jeans in the bag, untried. I will try them on at home and return them, like I usually do, too disheartened to ever try them on under the unforgiving lights of a dressing room. My windshield wipers are on high, competing with the relentless rain for my sight. I turn onto Snoqualmie Parkway from the freeway. I see a patch of blue sky. I drive another mile down the road and then, right there, the clouds part and the sun, oh, how it shines. Brighter than I’ve ever seen. The leaves, scarlet and orange and green flutter and sing in the breeze. And my breath catches at this extraordinary beauty on an ordinary day. Is it God, reminding me that hope remains even in the darkest of days?

I don’t know, of course. All I know is that for one transcendent, perfect moment my heart fluttered and soared with hope. Surely if there is beauty such as this, love will come my way?

Regardless, this sweet world, oh, how it sparkles. How happy I am to be here for the rides around the sun.

When Are You Leaving?

My writer soulmate, Will North, was generous enough to guest blog for me this week. You can find his beautiful love stories, along with the first mystery in his new series, on Amazon. He’s an exceptional writer with a huge heart, which shows in his work.

Enjoy.

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When Are You Leaving?

I first got in trouble with women in kindergarten, by sneaking a kiss from a cute blond behind the tropical fish tank. We’ve been dearest friends ever since (it must have been some kiss!). We went through grammar school and junior and senior high school together and as the years passed the friendship—which was all it ever was—just kept deepening. It deepens still, more than a half century later. We’re in touch, lately via email or Facebook, often weekly. Her husband is very tolerant about this. So is my wife. Somehow they understand that at some level we have been joined at the hip all this time. She is full of mischief and delight. We confide in each other and we critique each other. Both actions are founded on honesty, trust, and affection—albeit in the fun-poking way that comes naturally when you’re from the East Coast.

I put much of her mischievousness down to her mother, an almost elfin, tough-minded, soft-hearted Irishwoman whom I adored. We were close neighbors and she was a like a second mother to me, affectionate and stern in roughly equal measure. And every time I knocked on their apartment door as a kid, she’d open it and say:

“When are you leaving?”

She wasn’t trying to be rude (New Yorkers don’t have to try, it comes naturally). No, actually, she was looking out for me: she wanted to know when my own mother expected me home, so my mother wouldn’t worry. Then she’d sweep me inside to a place that felt like home.

But somehow that question, “When are you leaving?” stuck. For years. For decades. And it always made us laugh. I don’t know whether she ever harbored the notion that her daughter and I would one day marry. In truth we had only ever had one “date,” when I took the girl to a play in the city on her birthday. But that was not unusual in our crowd. Most of us had known each other from grammar school. We were all always together, right through high school, the whole group of us. But at rock bottom, I think my friend’s mother simply trusted me to be a gentleman and to look out for her daughter…and woe betide me if I ever stepped out of line.

By the eleventh grade, I had grown to almost six and a half feet tall. I’d stand in the mother’s doorway, looming high above her. She’d crane her neck upward and say, always, “When are you leaving?”

Whenever I came back from college to visit her and her wonderful husband (the daughter was off at another college), it was “When are you leaving?” When I brought my infant son by for inspection, it was “When are you leaving?”

And when her own life neared its end, I paid a visit. She looked up from her bed and asked, for the thousandth time, “When are you leaving?” I bent over, kissed her hollowing cheek, and whispered in her ear:

“Never.”