Blessings of the Clouds
Slowly, cautiously, we emerge from our homes. We can’t be too careful, even under the darkness of the blessed clouds, for they are fickle and will often leave with little warning.
But today, the clouds have looked down favorably upon us and graced us with their shadows for miles around. We gather and rejoice in their kindness, giving thanks for their darkness. If they are particularly pleased with us, they might even bless us with their tears.
Some take advantage of the clouds' blessing and hunt the animals that appear only after the moon has left the sky. Others brave the fields, forests, and rivers we rarely visit, fearing that the darkness will fade before we can return to the comforting dark and cold of our caves.
But not me. I will not insult the clouds by wasting this blessed day with work. As a few precious sky tears kiss my cheeks, I know what I must do. I grab my sister’s hand and leave behind the safety of our cave. We will not need it today; the clouds will be our protection! Hand in hand, we make our way to the clearing, and by the time we reach it, our hair and clothes are damp. We both lift our faces and hands to the sky, welcoming the tears. We lay on our backs in the grass, letting the water touch our bodies all over. When we are thoroughly drenched, we stand up and dance under the shadows of the clouds, laughing and loudly thanking the clouds for their blessing.
The tears don’t last long. As they stop, we lay back down in the grass, feeling their remnants on the ground below us. In my joy, I become careless and fall asleep.
I wake to my sister shaking me, crying my name. Before I even open my eyes, I realize what has happened. As I said, the clouds are fickle. I can see the horrid brightness even through my closed eyelids.
“The clouds are leaving!” my sister shouts. “We must get home!”
I stand, and we stumble our way home. The sun’s light practically blinds us, and my skin feels like it is burning, but I’m determined to reach our cave before the clouds take away their shade completely. We find shadows under the trees and take cover beneath them, which helps. But the sunbeams still find their way through the leaves, and it feels like their harsh shine is drilling a hole into my head.
But I don’t disappoint the clouds this day. We manage to reach our cave and slip inside before the clouds leave us completely.
Some might rage at the clouds for their unfaithfulness, but I choose to praise them for their protection against the light.
Death By a Thousand Needles
I’ve never been afraid of needles, but I still can’t stop the shiver that goes down my spine when the first needle pierces my skin. I’m almost grateful for the blindfold as I feel the needle slide deep into my right arm, a few inches below my elbow. Another swiftly follows, this time just above my knee. Then, another in the back of my hand.
They come, one right after another. I try to squirm away, but my restraints hold me tight. If they had stopped at one, or even five, it would have been bearable, hardly worse than a bad trip to the doctor’s office. But they didn’t stop. They don’t stop. My shoulder, my foot, my neck, over and over again, the needles prick me, diving into oceans of skin and muscle.
Is this what torture feels like? I always imagined the worst part of torture was the pain, but I was wrong; it’s the relentlessness, the utter inescapability.
I wish I knew what I did to deserve this, what I could do to make them stop. But there’s nothing they want from me, not really. I’m nothing more than an oddity to them, a specimen to dissect.
I’m forced to lie on my stomach, and more needles prick the backs of my legs and my upper back. I’m feeling woozy and nauseous, and I’m not sure if it’s from the constant pain or if the needles are injecting me with something.
Finally, I feel the biggest needle so far enter the very middle of my back. I gag as I feel it go in, every muscle in my body tensing up. I gasp a few times, feeling like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. I can’t pull in enough air. My lungs freeze up, refusing to inflate. As my eyelids grow heavy and close, a voice beside me says, “Interesting, this one lasted longer than the others.”
The Porch I Dream About
I lean back into the cushions with my eyes closed, feeling the warm sun on my face. The ceiling fan above me blows a gentle breeze, and a tall glass of lemonade is on the table beside me to keep me cool.
Not for the first time, I’m grateful that we made the choice to screen in our new front porch because I know without those screens, my arms and legs would be covered with mosquito bites by now, but as it is, I have yet to see or feel a bug in my space.
The bay window that looks into our living room site behind me, surrounded by the house's gray stone wall, but I’m facing the quiet street, with only the occasional neighbor walking their dog passing to distract me. Otherwise, it’s quiet, and I can settle in and be inspired by the great outdoors while enjoying all the comforts of indoors.
Our Song Lives on in Her
We had less time than I ever thought possible. I never dreamed that we would be saying goodbye before we turned 40, before our little girl was even five years old. We were still planning, still dreaming, but our time together was cut short, like a song that ends unexpectedly on a sour note that just feels wrong.
But I can still hear your melody. I hear it in our daughter’s laugh, in her conversations with you in her bedtime prayers. I see it when she cuddles up next to the dog and buries her face in his fur, when she puts her little arm around her friend to console him when he cries. I feel it when she throws her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight, when her cheek touches mine and our tears mingle together.
It breaks my heart that we won’t celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary together, that you won’t be here to see our daughter’s graduation or walk her down the aisle. With every part of my being, I miss you. But when I listen closely, I know you’re still with us. Your melody lingers on through the little life that we made together, and I will hold on tightly to those last notes until my last breath.
No Such Thing As Ghosts
There’s no such thing as ghosts, I tell myself as I creep through my dark house, my feet barely touching the wood floor.
There’s no such thing as ghosts, I repeat as I stare at the broken, bloody body at the bottom of the steps with the strangely familiar face.
There’s no such thing as ghosts, I chant as I reach out to my husband as he descends the stairs towards the body, though he doesn’t notice me.
There’s no such thing as ghosts, I cry, as my husband passes through my outreached transparent hand. But then, what am I?
“Am I Like Them?”
“You’re so much like them,” I hear for the dozenth time. I smile and nod politely, even though all I want to do is scream.
I am nothing like my parents! I want to shout. I am against everything they ever stood for! I am their polar opposite!
Except I’m not. Hard as I try, I can’t escape the things I inherited from them. It’s more than just my mom’s red hair and my dad’s pointed nose. It’s my dad’s temper, and my mom’s tendency to reach for a drink the minute things get a little challenging. It’s my dad’s need to be right and my mom’s refusal to acknowledge when there’s a problem. These are the characteristics that I’ve defined them by, and these are the traits that I wrestle with every day.
The outside world never saw any of it, but I did. Growing up, I had to listen as my dad screamed at us; I had to watch as my mom reached for that bottle. I felt the impacts of my dad’s stubbornness and my mom’s denial. They’ve passed on their traits to me, but they’ve also shown me how those traits can hurt others. And I plan to do everything I can to be different.
I can’t eliminate my temper, but I can go to therapy and learn how to deal with anger in healthy ways. I can never be free from the temptation to take a drink when things get rough, but I can learn to face my problems head-on and ask for help when it’s more than I can handle.
And I can surround myself with people who make me better.
I loved my parents. I still do, but now I have people in my life who have shown me how to treat the people I love better.
I may never be able to leave behind the imprints my parents have on me, but maybe, if I learn from others, the things I inherited from my parents will just be small pieces within the patchwork of my life – integral to who I am, but no more important or noticeable than any other. And maybe even less so.
My Couch to Die On
In a lot of ways, I’m easy to get along with. I’m a people-pleaser; I almost always do what’s asked of me. And 99 times out of 100, I’m appreciated for that.
But this . . . this is one thing I refuse to relinquish. Is it so much to ask for a bit of comfort, a bit of relaxation? I’m happy to stay quiet, to mind my own business and not bother anyone else. Why can’t she treat me with the same courtesy?
She stands over me, hovering, glaring. God, I hate that look. But I’m taking a stand, so to speak. I won’t let her take this from me; I deserve this!
“Come on, Charlie!” she says, giving me a little push. But I refuse to move. I can be quite stubborn when I want to be. When she realizes she can’t physically move me, she tries bribery - my favorite food. I admit that I’m tempted, but I stay firm. I’ve claimed my prize, and she won’t take it from me!
“Charlie, this isn’t like you!” she insists. She sounds hurt, like I’ve disappointed her. It almost breaks me. “Why are you being so stubborn?” My only reply is a small whimper. I don’t want to upset her, but I don’t think I’m asking for that much. I’m not being unreasonable, especially not when you consider how I’m normally treated around here!
“Really?” she says finally, her hands on her hips. “This is the hill you want to die on?”
I tilt my head as if I don’t know what she’s talking about, but she knows I understand.
She huffs at me, but I can see the slight smile on her face that tells me I’ve won. “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” she says as she leans over and scratches me behind the ears. “I don’t know why I bother trying to enforce the ‘No dogs on the furniture’ rule.”
Adult Life Blues
BACK TO SCHOOL! the large cardboard sign proclaims. Underneath are shelves filled with every school supply imaginable, right next to the racks of back-to-school clothes.
I remember being in a store just like this one, rolling my eyes as Mom insisted I try on outfit after outfit to find the perfect first-day-of-school look, fantasizing about the day I’d be an adult, when I’d no longer have to endure these shopping trips.
But here I am, ten years post-graduation, longing for the days of summer vacations and back-to-school sales. Instead, I’m stuck with the same, mundane, grueling, low-pay, going-nowhere adult life.
Would-be 25th Anniversary
Today would have been our 25th anniversary. That’s silver, isn’t it? Not that he would have gotten me anything. Well, I would have bought myself something, wrapped it, and he would have handed it to me, to “keep up appearances.”
I was young when I married him; too young, probably. But that’s what you did back then. You went away to college, met a man, came home engaged, and married him by the following spring. It was expected. I pretty much always did what was expected of me.
Richard was a good man. As friends, we got along quite well. My family liked him; so did I.
Less than five years into the marriage, I realized that, while he was a good man, he was not a good husband. Or maybe I wasn’t a good wife. We didn’t argue, at least not in front of anyone, but we usually got around that by simply not speaking to each other. There was very little we agreed on – whether I should work or stay home with the kids, how we spent our money, where we should live, who should do the housework.
I was miserable, but I stayed. For nearly 25 years, I stayed. Not for him. I didn’t owe him anything, and he would have understood if I left. No, I stayed for the children. They needed both of us – a mother and a father. So, I stayed.
I stayed right up until I didn’t have to anymore – when my youngest graduated and moved out of the house. We planned it that way, Richard and I. We didn’t tell the children, of course, but it had been planned for years. By the time I left, there were no tears, no hard feelings. The relationship was long over. This was just a formality.
And so, here I am, on the morning of my would-be anniversary, sipping coffee at the dining room table of my cozy apartment, alone. It sounds horrible, something I wouldn’t wish on my greatest enemy. And yet, I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing. For the first time, I’m not living my life for anyone else’s sake. For the first time, I think I might be happy.