Today I looked over the front door for the first time in I don’t know how long and I saw it for the first time in a long time.  I mean I notice it but I’ve become oblivious to the wood and glass triangle full of fabric over my front door.  It is a symbol of strength, loyalty, fealty, independence, teamwork, dedication, and devotion.  

When it first hung, I looked at it every day and said ‘thank you’ to the man I’d never met, the man who was responsible for so much.  At one point, a neighbor asked me why I had it and then thought I should put it someplace where no one else would see it or be exposed to it.

“Why?” I demanded of my neighbor who came over for coffee and overstayed her welcome.

“You didn’t even know him. So you shouldn’t have his flag on display,” she said sounding like it was any of her concern.  She doesn’t have to look at it, ever. 

The funeral flag over my door is no one’s business but my own.  It should have been buried with him or stayed with his wife, but it didn’t.  It came to me through a series of missteps.  I was proud of it anyway.  It reminds me that I am free because of the sacrifice of someone else, that my freedom isn’t free, that the price is high and is always paid.

“It stays.”

“What do you think is going to happen by leaving it there?”

“Absolutely nothing will happen, but my attitude is better.  I’m more respectful.  I appreciate life and those who have made mine so damned easy in comparison.”

“Sounds like you fell in love with soldier boy.”

“How do you know it wasn’t soldier girl?”

“You know what I mean.  Do you even know whose it was first?”

I did, but it was no one else’s business but my own.  “I need to go.  Thanks for stopping by.”

“Oh, I forgot.  I wanted to let you know, your dog has been barking again.  You need to do something about that.”

“I’ll look into it. Excuse me,” I said as I closed the door on her.

I looked again at the triangle over the door. 

“Hey, I just wanted to thank you for everything you did for all of us.  I think about you all of the time and wish I had gotten to know you,” I whispered at the flag.  “I wanted you to know, your son turned out all right. You’d be proud of him. I have it on good authority, he’s just like you, a good man.”  I kissed my fingers and jumped so I could plant it on the flag of the man who would have been my father-in-law.  “Forty years of service and all I can do for you is offer you a kiss this way to thank you.”

Happy Thanksgiving

I don’t tend to be someone who runs early for things.  I usually run right on time to just a hair after.  So, that being the case, this is either an incredibly late Thanksgiving notice or one which is just a bit early.

Thanksgiving leaves me mixed.  It commemorates survival and being grateful for life’s blessings.  Easier said than done some days.  When I was younger, I didn’t realize the full impact of gratitude for survival.  I was the middle child of a moderately well-to-do family.  We didn’t have harsh economic downturns.  We didn’t have war or famine to contend with.  We had to survive each other and society at large.

Two years ago, I celebrated Halloween by receiving a cancer diagnosis.  Normally we decorate fully for  Halloween for the kids in the neighborhood, not for ourselves.  It was the first year my house has been dark on my favorite holiday.

On November 7 I was fortunate enough to have the surgery to remove the cancer. 

That year on Thanksgiving I was grateful for:

·         Friends and Family who stuck by me, even when I didn’t deserve either their love or support

·         Health (that it wasn’t worse and there were no complications)

·         Great doctors/surgeons

·         Fabulous insurance

·         Pain Medication (I love my pharmacist)

·         You get the idea.

After surgery, I spent a year in and out of doctor’s offices.  I was grateful for the fact that I had such wonderful follow up care, my doctors talked to each other (usually), I was able to circumvent a lot of problems and questions by taking notes during my appointments, and I persisted when things weren’t going as well as they might.

The past year, I am grateful that my immune system appears to be back; I no longer get sick at the drop of a hat. Alternate treatment therapies have helped aid my healing in more ways than standard medicine will ever understand.  I continued to develop my support system, and think I am finally on the road to true wellness.

They say that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, I have to agree.  But I also think that the trials and errors have benefited me, so did the cancer. 

I took a vote, so I was the only one there means nothing.  I decided every day is Thanksgiving.  Every day there is something or someone for which I am thankful.  Every day something is better than the day before.  Every experience, good or bad, is worth the effort.

It is my fond wish that you can also find something each day, no matter how small, and be pleased, happy, and/or grateful. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

***

The pregnancy went well.  In so many ways it was a magical time.  I never looked better or felt better in my life. I waited until I was showing before I said anything to anyone.  I didn’t say much other than I loved my husband and I was doing this for both of us.

I worked up until the end.  There were swashbucklers to be applauded and games to be created and I didn’t want to miss any of that.  Once the baby was born I wouldn’t be back to work until after the Christmas break.

When I went into labor, I didn’t feel Alan.  I expected him to show up with the first contraction.  Instead, I felt my sister Jan who had come to stay with me until the baby came.  She touched my shoulder and asked if she should call the doctor.  It was too early and I needed to tough it out at home a while longer. 

“Alan,” I cried.

“Syl, honey, he’s not here.”

“But I want him.  I want him here now!”

She gave me a look like I’d lost my mind, and maybe I had for a few minutes.  To me he promised and he was breeching his promise to me.  I heard a little voice that said, “In the delivery room, Wendy.  I’ll meet you there when it’s time.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay, what?” Jan asked.

“Okay, we’ll do this together.  You, me and Peter.”

“I didn’t think you knew the sex of the baby.”

Technically, I didn’t know.  I never let the doctor say.  I just knew it had to be, Alan promised. He never broke his word to me, even the day he died.  He said he’d love me forever, I always thought it meant he would be by my side. I was wrong.

“It’s always felt like a boy and I love the name Peter.”

“Are you sure you don’t want him to be a junior?”

“No.  The baby gets to have his own identity. He gets to be his own person.”

“It’s a shame Alan won’t see this.”

“But he will.  I know in my heart he knows and he’s happy.”

***

Labor is difficult, no matter how easy the doctor says it is.  Pushing a watermelon out of your body through a small opening is painful, no matter what anyone says.

The first cry of the baby made me forget the pain.  The first time I held him, I knew I would do it all over again.  Alan stood next to Jan as she cut the umbilical cord.  He was there the entire time. 

I felt his energy once we got to the delivery room, after I was prepped I saw him pacing.  I didn’t think he paced that much when he was alive, but I didn’t watch him as closely.  I always thought I had forever to remember the little things. Now I took them all in and memorized what he gave me.

His was the only voice I heard.  I’m sure the doctor was issuing orders and granting encouragement.  I even think I heard Jan cheering me on.  All of the voices were just background noise.  His was the voice I wanted, the one that I needed, the one that reassured me, the one that drove me on to give birth to our son.

I was wheeled into my room, away from the machines, the doctors and the nurses.  It was Jan, Alan, me and the baby. 

“Sylvia, he’s beautiful,” Alan said. “He looks just like you.”

“No, he looks like you.  He’s perfect.”

“Who are you talking to?” Jan asked.

“Alan,” I said.

“Do you think he can hear you?”

“Of course.  He’s with me, in my heart, always.”

“Can you give me a few minutes alone?” I asked.

“Sure.  I’ll go to the cafeteria and get something to eat.  I’ll call Mom before I come back.”

“Thanks.” 

After the door closed and I was alone with Alan and the baby, he said, “I’m so proud of you both.  My heart couldn’t be any fuller.”

“Are  you leaving soon?”

“Yes.  If I stay, I forfeit watching him learn to walk and talk.  I want to see him ride his bike for the first time.  I want to see graduate from high school.  Those things are too precious, I want to share them with both of you, not just be a casual observer.”

“Okay.” I said despite the tears.  “Still come to me in my dreams, please?  They’ve been so good lately.”

“I got him a present,” he said quietly, “for Halloween.”

I’d forgotten today was Halloween despite the decorations in the hallway. “How?”

“Not exactly a present exactly, but I got him a playmate.  She’s not old enough to play yet.”

“Did you father this playmate?”

“I love it that you are jealous. No, I didn’t.”

“When will I meet him or her.”

“Soon.  You’ll know when you hear her name that she’s the right one. I want him to have what we had.  I think everyone deserves love that lasts a lifetime.”

I couldn’t see for the tears that ran down my face, so I closed my eyes and nodded.

“Will we have more children?” I asked.  “Do you want more?”

“That will be up to you.  Peter is my gift to you even though some days it won’t feel like it.”

“Okay.  I’ve started to make a book of stories for him.  I want him to know you. I even had your mother send pictures from when you were little.”

“Good.  Promise, you won’t forget to tell him stories, lots and lots of stories,” Alan said.  “When I was little, I loved ghost stories.”

“I do now, too.”

He kissed me and said, “It’s time.  I’ll be back for the firsts. You have my word. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Good-bye. 

This time I got to watch him dissolve into a golden light.  More than that, I got to feel his energy dwindle until there was nothing left but a feeling of calm and love.

***

I got into a routine with Peter as quickly as I could.  I no longer celebrated Fridays with pizza and a movie.  I celebrated every afternoon with a trip to the park, even though he was in a buggy.  We went most Saturday and Sunday afternoons, too.

It didn’t take long to find out who the regulars were and get to know them.  In our unofficial group, there were three moms and one dad, John.  John had one little girl who he covered in too many blankets and cooed over like a fool.  He never talked to any of us, he existed on the periphery, the fringe.

John was a little younger than me, definitely taller than me.  He had sandy hair crammed beneath a knitted hat and beautiful brown eyes.  Well they would have been beautiful but for the pain that showed in them; the pain of love lost.  From the shape of his face and lips, it looked like he could have a devastating smile, if he ever smiled again.

“May I look at him or her?” I asked after I put Peter back in his carrier after providing him with a snack.  I wasn’t a big fan of breast feeding in public so I’d expressed milk for bottles.  Besides, when it’s in a bottle someone else could feed him if they really wanted to.

“Sure,” he said.  “This is my daughter.”

I stood and looked at her and noticed that she was crammed in there with stuffed animals, spare bottles, and more blankets than he’d ever need even in Alaska at forty below.

“She’s gorgeous.  I’ve never seen such beautiful eyes,” I said.  “You and your wife must be proud.”

He didn’t say anything, just shook his head.  “I don’t have a wife.  She died recently.”

Judging by his look, she probably during childbirth.  Poor guy.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  I have a reason to live now, even though I will miss Ruth for the rest of my life.”

“I understand.”

“You couldn’t.”

“I’m a widow.”

“Ah, you could.  I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s getting nippy. I should probably go,” I said gathering my purse.

“I didn’t mean to scare you off,” he said.  “There’s a coffee place down the street if you’d like to get a cup and talk for a little while.”

“That would be nice. By the way I’m Sylvia.” I reached out to shake his hand.

“John.  Nice to meet you.  I’ve seen you, but I haven’t felt very sociable.”

“I understand.”

“I’m sure you do.”

We walked in silence the two blocks to the coffee house.  We talked and shared stories about our children.  At less than six months the kids didn’t have a lot of adventures, it was more our keeping up with the new demands in our own lives.

***

John and I traded babysitting duty over that first year.  We became our own support system.  We did well together.

True to his word, Alan saw Peter say his first word “oops” and take his first clumsy steps; it was a miracle they happened the same night.  He touched his son and told him stories until he slept that night.  He held me and we made love, but it wasn’t the right time of month.  Just as well.  I got my figure back and wasn’t quite so tired.

“Have you thought of remarrying?” he asked as he held me.

“I am married, silly.”

“To someone tangible.  Someone you can touch and talk to every night.”

“I’ll lose you if I do.  I can’t lose you again.”

“Not true.  You can never lose me.  Besides, I’ve got eighteen visits left and I could make one of them your wedding.”

“You wouldn’t be jealous?”

“No.  You are here and you deserve to be loved daily in the here and now.”

“Any recommendations?”

He nodded.  “You didn’t figure it out for yourself?”

“What?”

“John.  I chose his daughter for Peter and him for you.”

“Oh God.”

“What’s his daughter’s name?  You should know it by now.”

“Elizabeth Gwendolyn Hartley.”

“She’s his Wendy.”

I hadn’t seen it or even thought about it.  But she was.  They played together like they belonged together.

“His Ruth approves of all of it and so do I.  They had the same relationship we did.”

“Where is she now?”

“Sending him some dreams about you and the future.  She doesn’t have as many visits left; she spent a lot of time in the nursery when Lizzie was born.”

“I love you forever,” I said.  He waved as he shimmered out of our room to Peter’s to say his own goodnight and good-bye.

***

We sat on our bench with a thermos of coffee between us, watching our children play in the sand box of the park.  Lizzie still had on too many clothes, but I loved that John was protective of his daughter.

“This Friday is my turn to babysit,” John said.  “Are you going to have your hair cut or are you going to go out to Happy Hour with your friends from work?”

“Neither.  I was thinking it might be fun to have movie night.”

“Kids movie and a grown up one?” he asked.

“That would be nice.  You supply the baby food and I’ll bring Chinese.”

“Six o’clock at your place?”

“Done.”  He stretched and said, “It’s late.  I need to get going.” He collected his daughter and walked my son to me.

“See you Friday.”  I put Peter in his carriage so we could head home, too.

Dinner and a movie with two small children is a very tame date, not that it was a date, really.  John and I spent a lot of free time together because our children were similar ages and we had similar schedules.  We developed inside jokes of our own and spent very comfortable time together.

After everything was cleaned up and the kids were asleep, Lizzie in a portable playpen and Peter in his crib, John and I sat on the sofa next to each other.

“You need a new sofa,” he said.  “This is the only cushion that isn’t worn out.”

“I never sit in the middle.  I usually curl up and read in one of the corners.”

“Ah. But you can’t see the screen well from where you’re sitting.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Come over here,” he said patting his lap.  “Please?”

“You don’t want me to sit on your lap, do you?”

“Please? I won’t get too fresh. I’m too tired.” He punctuated the sentence with a yawn.

“Five minutes then I’m off and back to my corner.”

“Okay.”

I edged to his lap and he held me like Alan used to.  I rested my head on his shoulder and sighed.  It wasn’t exactly the same, but it couldn’t be, could it?  He kissed my temple and said, “You feel wonderful.  Thank you for tonight.”

“My privilege, sir.” The words came out in a giggle.  I felt about sixteen, except my chaperones couldn’t do much to punish me if I got frisky. 

“I’d like to tell you about some dreams I’ve been having,” he said, “about my wife.”  He told me about his dreams, his reactions, and her persistence.  “They’ve all felt right and real. Like she’s given me permission to move on.”

“She has.”  I told him about he visits from Alan, my dreams and how John had filled parts of my life I didn’t realize were empty.

We shared our ghost stories  for two hours.  No one else would have understood.

“Let’s go somewhere more comfortable,” I said.

“I’m comfortable like this.”

He was intentionally not understanding me.  “We can lie on top of the blankets in the other room and talk.  It would be easier on your lap.”

I shut off the lights and locked the door before I returned to the sofa to take his hand.  It was a short trip down the hall plus a pit stop to make sure Peter and Lizzie were still sleeping.

“You have a piece of my heart,” he said quietly as he fluffed a pillow on the bed.  “A big piece.”  He had one of mine, too, but I didn’t know how to say it.  “You don’t need to say anything back.  Maybe someday you’ll feel more than friendship for me.”

“I already do.  It’s just awkward.  The only person I ever felt this way about before was my husband.”

“Me, too. I mean about Ruth.”

“Kiss me before things get strange,” I whispered into his chest. 

He did and it was amazing.  It was unlike Alan and yet it was perfect, too.  After several amazing kisses, I untucked his shirt and ran my hands over his chest. 

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“Definitely, I just don’t want the kids to wake up,” I said.

“I love that you are practical.”

***

We made love very slowly and carefully that night.  There were first for both of us:  first time with a new partner, first time in a new bed, a few of the maneuvers were firsts for one of us or the other.

“Congratulations, Sylvia,” Alan said a few moments before dawn.

“What?  Alan, what’s wrong?” John was snoring beside me and I didn’t want to wake or scare him.

“You are moving on with your life, I’m proud of you.  You will be happy together.”

“I know.”

“By the way, her name is going to be Paula and she will be the best of both of you.”

I hadn’t realized we didn’t use birth control last night.  I hadn’t needed to keep condoms in the house and I wasn’t using the pill, patch or the ring, either.

“No chance you could be wrong, is there?” I asked.

“Nope.  I love you and Ruth sends her love to all of you, too.  You’ll make a beautiful family.”  With that he was gone down the hall to look at his progeny and leave me again. I was no longer lost, angry or broken.  I was at peace, whole, and in love.

“John, are you awake?” I asked as I nudged my bed partner.

“Yeah, of course.  Is everything all right?”

“The kids are fine.  How do you feel about the name Paula?”

“I’ve missed you, Sylvia,” he said.  “More than you know.” He gave me a small, almost tentative smile. The smile almost made it to his eyes, but fell just short.

Funny, he said the words, he missed me, but he hadn’t come for me until now.  He hadn’t done anything to let me know he was all right.  There was never an explanation sent.  Nothing. 

Out of the blue, three years after the incident he showed up like he’d never been gone.

“You look wonderful, Alan.  But you always looked good to me.”  Considering it was the middle of winter, he had a light tan.  He didn’t look one day older than the last time I saw him.  Nothing had changed. Time had stopped where he was concerned.  His sense of style was the same: dark trousers; long-sleeved, striped work shirt; loafers with tassels.  He was wrinkle free and crisp.  In another era, he’d be considered a dandy.

From the time he was sixteen, he treated his body like a temple and from time to time he’d let me worship it. When we were older, I had regular, unlimited access to the temple – I loved to worship.  Me?  I treated my body more like a playground, fun and amusing for the moment but not necessarily built to last. Life is about balance, after all.

Since I’d last seen him, I now had the tiniest of lines around my eyes and now had to wear glasses to see to drive.  I didn’t even want to think about the cellulite that had come to take up permanent residence on my rear end and thighs.  I started coloring my hair when I was in my mid-twenties because premature grey happens to all the women in my family.

I guess fortune smiles on some of us but not on others.

“I wanted to check on you.” The words sounded shy and uncertain like his smile.  “I wanted to for a long time.”

“I’m still here and I’m still me.  Nothing changes much around here.  I guess I’ve become a grown up.” At age thirty-five I figured I’d have grown up with him or without him.

I never wanted to be a grown up.  Growing up wasn’t part of my life plan.  I wanted to climb trees and splash and play in creeks until I was sixty or seventy.  I planned to learn to scuba dive when I was fifty.  I played hopscotch at the park by myself on sunny, spring days.  I still loved the swings, pumping my legs as hard as I could so I could get close to heaven.  I don’t know the last time I played.

“Sylvia, it’s hard to imagine you being practical and sensible all of the time.”  The pendulum swung and carefree was replaced with practical and necessary.

“Growing up is over rated.”  Well, there were some adult pursuits I enjoyed, but it had been a while since I indulged in those.  Not that there was much opportunity.

“But it is a necessary evil,” he said.  “Can I sit?”

“Sorry.  I wasn’t thinking.  Make yourself at home.  If you want anything from the kitchen, you know where everything is.” I hadn’t reorganized even though I promised myself I would.

I folded down the corner of the page I’d been reading and closed the book.  “Do you know what I miss the most about us?” Other than his voice, his touch, his humor.

He shook his head slowly; he dreaded the answer. I could tell, there wasn’t even a whisper of a smile on his lips.

“I miss being Wendy to your Peter Pan.  I feel like a kid in second grade who can’t find anyone to play with at lunch or recess. I want to play and I know all the best games, but no one is interested in that.  They’ve all moved on and I haven’t.  I don’t know if I ever will.” Since I first felt him in the apartment, I tried valiantly not to cry or give way to the emotion; I failed.  My face crumpled and my eyes leaked; all of the things I promised wouldn’t happen if I saw him again happened.  We met each other in elementary school, third grade I think. If he had any kind of a memory of me, he’d  remember the brave front wouldn’t last long; it never did.  Emotions ruled more of my life than I wanted to admit aloud to anyone, least of all him. “You were my favorite playmate.”  Sometimes he was my only playmate.

“You don’t miss any of the grown-up stuff like making love?”

All the time.  “I miss the other part more.  You were the perfect match for me.  No one else understands me like you did.  And I haven’t made any kind of connection like that with anyone since you’ve been gone.”

“Sylvia, can I touch you?” he asked. “Please?”

He crossed the tiny living room and seated himself next to me before I could answer.  Even though I was angry, there was no way I could possibly miss this with him.

I nodded my head repeatedly but didn’t lean in.  Instead, I rose and I went into the bathroom for some tissue.

“Are you all right?” he asked after three minutes.

“I’ll be right out.  If I knew you were coming, I’d have put the tissues in the living room.”  I blew my nose and cleaned up some of the mascara from under my eyes.  Pandas had nothing on me, any more black beneath my eyes and I could have joined KISS.

He was pacing the tiny apartment when I left the bathroom.

“Nothing has changed in here.”

No.  Everything was different.  Some of the furniture had been replaced.  His books were mostly donated to the veteran’s hospital. Almost all of his clothes were donated to a homeless shelter.  I kept three of my favorite shirts, the ones I used as nightshirts when we first got married.  The picture from our wedding was in a scrapbook under the bed.

“You’re being kind.”  He was the one with the eye for detail, for color and pattern.  He redecorated six months before, well, before.

“Are you going to sit on my lap or not?  I need to touch you, please?”

“We’re both too old for that and I’m too fat now.  I’ll break you.”  When we were married, sitting on his lap was a precursor to sex, not sometimes, all of the time.  I wasn’t going to open myself to that possibility tonight.

“Well, at least sit next to me. We can talk if nothing else.”

I sat next to him.  We both put our feet up on the coffee table, magazines under our feet to keep things nice, not that anyone would ever know.  We touched from shoulder to hip.  We even held hands while we talked.

“So, Alan, anything you want to talk about?”

“This and that.”

Fine, be explicit and definitive, why don’t you?

“Okay.  You lead,” I said.

So, he told me stories of his adventures for the last three years and change.  He gave detailed accounts of palaces in Europe, down to the sizes of the beds and the number of pictures in various rooms.  I heard about fancy gardens that had been designed over one-hundred years ago that were in England. He told me about the shores of Ireland where my ancestors had once lived and the Blarney Stone.

“Did you kiss it?” I asked. It would have been one of the first things on my list to do, but we had different tastes.

He loved Asia for the food and the culture, but felt illiterate and ignorant.  At least in Europe and Latin America he could read the letters in the signs even if he didn’t understand the words.

He asked about family and friends.  Who had babies?  Who was still married?  Who moved?

“You know, you don’t have to be a stranger.  You could find out for yourself.”

“You know that’s not really possible,” he said.  “I have to leave when the sun comes up.”

“Do you have a vampire complex or something?”

“No.  If I did, I’d have started sucking on your neck a long time ago.  I love your neck, it’s one of your best features.” He ran his finger up and down it to prove his point. The touch was no more than a whisper but I got goose bumps everywhere, just like the old days.

I grabbed his hand before he could do it again and I kissed the back of it.  I kissed each finger in turn, just small delicate kisses of appreciation.

“Are you still angry?” he asked. He pushed hair out of my face so he could see my eyes.  He didn’t trust my words, but he trusted what he could see there.  Blue eyes seldom mask the truth; why hadn’t mine been brown instead?

“Some days, but not as much and not as often.  Now you are the dull ache, the pebble in my shoe that I can never shake out.”

“I didn’t want to leave.  I didn’t have a choice.”

“That’s what they all say.”

He cocked an eyebrow.  “Excuse me?”

“Turn of phrase.  Sorry.”

“Will you forgive me?”

“I forgave you about six months after the fact.  It doesn’t mean I haven’t forgotten or that I don’t miss you.  If  you are asking if I hate you, that answer is no.  I don’t hate you now. I could never hate you long term, no matter what.”

“But you did then?”

“For a time.  Then I realized I was being childish.  Nothing in life comes with a guarantee.”

“True.”

“Do you know what today was?”

“Yes, January 24.”

“You’re being difficult.  You really don’t remember?”

“Obviously not, Alan.  Tell me, what was today?”

“It is the twenty-fifth anniversary of the first time I saw you.  You were playing hopscotch by yourself.  It was your first day at the new school.”

“I’d forgotten about that.”  My father’s job had transferred him across the country.  My mother didn’t want us to move until there was a break in the school year, so we followed after Christmas. 

“My mother made me play with my younger sister, it was her favorite game.”

He’d worn a pair of plaid pants that day and a navy blue polo-type shirt.  He wasn’t in step with the other kids, then again, neither was I.

“We had lunch together the first time that day. Sylvia  do you remember?

“Of course, I remember.” My mother made horrible egg salad sandwiches and somehow she’d given me two that day.  I had no cookie or milk in my bag, just two crummy sandwiches.  His mom had packed a brown paper sack full of cookies and a thermos of apple juice.  The two of us shared everything that day.

“Your mom made the best sandwiches,” he said sighing.  “No one has ever topped her egg salad or her turkey salad.”

And who would want to?

“Syl, what else do you remember?”

“Shots at the nurse’s office,” I said.  Every year the school offered immunizations for the students, every year it upset me.  The school was across the street from a cemetery and the first time we lined up for shots, there was a funeral.  I’ve been afraid of doctors and needles ever since.

“It was the first time we held hands,” Alan said.  He softly kissed my cheek.

“Everyone made fun of us.”

“But it was the right thing to do, you were brave after that.”

“Only with you.”  Always with him.  He was my source of strength.  He was my knight in shining armor.  “You made it possible for me to do all sorts of things.”

“I wasn’t brave that day,” I said as quietly as I could.  And I wasn’t.  After I realized he wasn’t coming home, I was a sobbing pile of goo.  I sobbed for days and then hid from family and friends for weeks.  I only went to work because happy, sad or indifferent, bills must be paid and responsibilities met.

“I’m sorry about that.  You know I didn’t have a choice.”

I knew that now, but then, no.

“So, smart man, what do you remember?”

“Our first kiss,” he said.  “I was so scared.  All I knew was that it was supposed to be magic.  It took me weeks to get the courage to do it.”

“It was nice.”  Short, dry, awkward, but nice.

“Did you know John’s sister offered to teach me to kiss so it would be good for you?”

“Mary Steinman kissed you first?”  That made me angry. 

“No.  She offered but I turned her down.  She was always jealous of you.”

“Why?  She had green eyes, fabulous hair, and she was an ‘older woman’.”  Mary Steinman was sixteen to our fourteen and had steady boyfriends forever, probably because she had been on the cheerleading squad.

“She wanted to be smart and you were smart.  You’re still smart, Sylvia.”

“Not with men, I’m not.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“That’s kind of awkward, isn’t it?  Do you really want to hear?”

“No.  I hate that you’ve moved on, but you are entitled to have a life and that would be part of moving on.  Anyone serious?”

Anyone who wanted a serious romantic relationship with me was in kindergarten.  I gave up my accountancy practice and went back to school six months after.  I couldn’t concentrate on the columns of numbers, the regulations, or the finky clients.  I wanted to play.  By teaching small children, I had a chance at that. I’d done an accelerated course and took more than the normal number of credits to finish my credential early.  I could have taught high school math and been paid more, but I wanted to be somebody’s Wendy again and five year-olds love Peter Pan.

So I told him about Grady, Steve, Kevin, and Ryan who were my swashbucklers.  I couldn’t exactly play with them, but I gave them ideas for games when they were on the playground.  I applauded and cheered when I could.  I helped bandage knees and elbows.  I got the chance to smile.  I even taught one of them how to tie his shoes, it was a major triumph for us both.

“Still jealous?” I asked with a slow smile.

“Always.  I wish we’d had at least one baby,” he said.  “I really regret that we didn’t.”  He ran his fingers across my cheek and over my lips.  His fingers were as delicate as ever, their touch made me shudder.

“Me, too.”  I always wanted a little boy who would look like him and have his spirit so that we could all play together.  “We were saving money for the perfect house before we had a baby.  That was what we agreed.”

“We were wrong.  At least if we’d had a child, you wouldn’t be so alone now.”

“Not true.  I would have been alone with company.”

“Sylvia-”

“Shh.” I put my fingers to his lips.  “No regrets, ever.  I can’t live my life second guessing anything else.  I’ve done enough of that for a lifetime.” 

I stood and paced the room. I knew I was ovulating, my cycle was like clockwork,  and that the time would be right if I wanted to try once more with my husband.  To me he always would be my husband, no matter what the world said. 

He wouldn’t be around for the birth or to help raise the baby, I knew that much.  I also knew that it might just heal my heart in a way that my swashbucklers wouldn’t.  It was a risk worth taking.

“Can I sit on your lap? I really need you to hold me right now,” I said.  “I miss it so much.  The way we fit together.  The way you smelled.  What usually happened after.”

He raised an eyebrow just a fraction of an inch.  “Really?  You trust me?”

“I don’t trust you, which is why I want to do it.”

***

That last time with Alan, everything was perfect.  It was like a stew that had been on the stovetop for hours.  It was rich and succulent.  All of the sensations blended in a way that had never been before, even when we were at our best.

We laughed, we cried, we snuggled, we touched, we said nothing at all.  It was forever and over in a blink of the eye.  Sometimes even love isn’t fair.

“The sun is almost up,” he said quietly as he stroked my hair.  “I am going to have to leave soon.  You know that, right?”

I nodded and put on my robe.  “Shall I see you out?  Can I see you out?”

“I’d rather remember you here, in bed, hopefully pregnant by me. Remembering the warmth and love we just shared.”

“You knew?”

“You have a special smell when you’re fertile. I thought you knew that.”

“If I am, will you come back?”

“I won’t be able to see you again until the baby is born, and then it will be like tonight.”

“Why?”

“They told me I only got so many visits and then no more.  I wanted them to last until you could join me.”  He was doling them out so they would last.  He doled out his Halloween candy as a kid, it lasted until Valentine’s Day.  Mine?  It made it about a week.

“When did they say that?”

“After the car accident, the day I died.  I was granted thirty visits to you where you could see me.  I can come and see you, check on you whenever I want.  People can only see me thirty times until I dissolve into nothingness.”

“Is this your first time back?  Do I get twenty-nine more times?” Please say yes.  Please?

“No.  There are twenty.”

“Who got my other ten?” I demanded.  I promised I wouldn’t be angry but now I was.

“The recipients of my organs. That counted as one.  It was generous of you to share me that way.”

“I couldn’t imagine you no longer seeing the world.  I wanted someone else to know how strong your heart was…” I would have gone on, but I would have lost time with him again.

“I lined up your swashbucklers.  I wanted, no I needed, you to have joy if not solace.  You deserved it.”

“Will they stay with me?”

“For a few years, then they’ll select their own replacements.”

“Anyone else?”

“My parents, but they thought I was just a dream.”

“And now me?”

“Always you.  Every dream you have had, that was good, I’ve helped plant.  You weren’t ready until last year to start to have the sweet dreams, those are free of charge, by the way.  They are like a recording and don’t cost the extra energy.”

“I need more of those, so I’ll have stories to tell our son.”

“Promise me you’ll go to the doctor soon, so no one is aware.”

We had harvested some of my eggs and his sperm when we were first married. We wanted to have kids when we were in our forties, and it would ensure that we had good quality material to work with in case the old college try wasn’t enough.

“Promise.  I’ll go tomorrow and make a withdrawal.” I gave him a shaky smile.  I tried again to be brave and wasn’t sure how long it was going to last.

“I have to go. One more smile and one more kiss and then I’ll see you when our Peter Pan is born.”

“You really are cocky aren’t you?”

“Yep.  You loved that about me.”

“Love. I still love that about you, Alan.” I reached up and kissed him.  “I think I will stay in bed a little longer.  If this is a dream, I don’t want to forget any part of it and the bed smells like you again.  I’ll see  you off from here, if that’s okay.”

His own cheeks dampened as he fought to smile.  “Sylvia, I will see you in the delivery room. Wouldn’t it be fitting if he were born on Halloween?”

His voice was fading and I was almost back to sleep when I heard him say, “I will love you forever.”

***

When I woke the next morning, I wasn’t sure how much of the night before was real and how much was a dream.  I looked the same and I felt the same, mostly.  But I felt like a huge burden had been lifted from my heart.

The next business day, I thumbed through the phone book to make sure the fertility clinic Alan and I had used was still in business.  They were and my deposits were still cared for.  How could I forget, I paid a fee every quarter to maintain them.

“I’d like to schedule an appointment for an insemination,” I said to the receptionist.

“We have something available next month,” she said.

“Anything any earlier? I know I’m fertile now.”

“No, there’s nothing available until next month.”

“Fine.  But if you get a cancelation, will you call me?”  I was urgent.  This was important to me.  Time was of the essence.

I disconnected and started to call other clinics to see if they would do the work if they hadn’t stored the material.  None of them would.  After I called the last clinic and felt bereft once again, my phone rang.

“Mrs. Michaels?”

“This is she,” I said.  “Who is calling?”

There had been a cancellation for late that afternoon if I could make it.  I almost had an accident getting there I was so excited and I was forty-five minutes early; it was worth it.

The nurse took me back to an exam room.  She explained the procedure, reviewed items on her checklist, handed me a sheet to cover the lower half of my body.

When I went home, I was on a cloud.  The doctor said he couldn’t guarantee results on the first attempt, but my health was good and I was young enough it might happen in one procedure.

***

I bought onesies on my way home.   I got out catalogs full of baby furniture, practical things that would work until he was a toddler.  I reorganized the room that had been our office so it would resemble a nursery.  I wouldn’t give up the office space until he arrived.

I called my mother.  I hadn’t talked to her in an age.

“Mom?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Did you know when you got pregnant with me when it happened?”

“No.”

That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.  I wanted to hear that she knew within fifteen seconds that she was with child, me, and the pregnancy would be good. “Oh.”

“I knew immediately with your brother, David.”

“What was different?”

“I wasn’t trying to get pregnant with you. We were on our honeymoon.  We wanted a little more alone time first.”

“I was born two years after you married Daddy.”

“We took a late honeymoon.  You remember he was in the Navy when we first got married, he was gone all of the time.  He was only home for two weeks for the honeymoon before his ship went back out.”

“And with Jan?”

“We loved you so much, we didn’t want you to be the only one.  We wanted you to have a playmate. So when it happened, I just knew.”

“Why are you asking?”

“I want a child.”

“Are you dating someone?  Is it a serious relationship?”

“No.”

“Oh, honey.  You haven’t had a one night stand and gotten into trouble?”

She still thought of me as young.  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

“Alan.  I want to have Alan’s baby.”

“Alan is dead.  It would be hard for that to happen now, wouldn’t it?”

“Sperm bank.  We banked his sperm a long time ago.”

“Why?”

“Insurance policy.”

“Why now?”

“I still love him and it’s time.  I really want a baby and I don’t want to be forty before I meet Mr. Right.  I met Mr. Right when I was a kid. I might remarry one day, but it wouldn’t be the same.  It couldn’t possibly be.

“It’s a big responsibility on your own.”

“I’ve grown up a lot in the last three years.  I can do this. I need to do this.”

“I’ll support you any way I can, you know that. Have you made an appointment at the clinic yet?”

“I already did it today.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it took.  I’d love to have a Halloween baby.”

It had been an incredibly long week at work, probably because nothing happened. Nothing ever happened at work, that’s both the good news and the bad news.  I had stability on the job and in my personal life, but there’s no excitement or drama.  At one time I craved stability and had none.  I should have been more careful what I wished for.  My life became so stable it was like my feet were nailed to the floor.  Everything in life is a tradeoff..  Now all I wanted something, anything to happen that was different or unexpected.  It didn’t happen.  It never does. Maybe that’s for the best.

I celebrated payday by doing what I do every Friday night; eating  a bad frozen pizza, wearing sweats, indulging in a new book to escape for a couple of hours.  The further the book from my real life, the better I like it.  Heroines in books are never boring, tired, or average; they are perfect, young, thin and energetic. I was that, once.  It felt like that was a long, long time ago. I guessed that was why I liked adventure stories and historical fiction aimed at men, it was very far from my life and current reality.

I curled into a corner of my sofa, legs tucked under me, reading the latest book by my favorite author.  Other than the sound of a clock ticking, I was lost inside the world the author created. I completely disappeared into the words, the images, the characters, the dialogs, the tension, the magic. I love being lost when I don’t have to use gas money to find my way home. 

One hour became two. Two became three. Three became the rest of the evening.  I only got up twice to make a cup of tea and stretch my legs.

My life wasn’t always staid and quiet. 

Really.

For a long time there had been him. 

He was an adventure all on his own.  He was there from childhood and never in the background, he was part of my everyday life.  When I was old enough to date, he was the One.  Actually he was the only one I wanted or needed:  one boyfriend, one lover, one husband.  It was like we were destined by the Universe to be together. 

Everything about Alan Michaels was perfect, while I had him.  Now he was gone and had been for three years, two months, and sixteen days. Not that I’m counting, mind you. It was just that I was whole and complete when we were together. He was the yin to my yang in every regard.  I am a shell of who I was when I was with him.

Without Alan, there was no one to bounce ideas off, no one to share the day to day responsibilities of life, no one to keep my back warm in bed.  Then again, there was no one to steal my pillows or change the channel when I was watching a movie.

God, I missed him with every part of me.  I missed him every hour of every day.  I blamed myself that he wasn’t with me anymore.

I used to dream that he was with me; just memories of the good times we had before.  Over time I’d quit having the dreams or feeling his familiar presence.  I wasn’t sure if this was a dream and I was afraid to pinch myself in case it was.

The day he left, I was totally unprepared.  He got in his car and was gone.  We hadn’t fought or disagreed about anything. He simply left me one morning, apparently to go to work, and never came home to me.  No note.  No explanation.  Just gone.  He’d been ripped from my life and my heart.  It wasn’t fair, not at all. 

I searched for an explanation and came up empty.  There were no signs, no indicators, nothing at all to warn me that it was over forever.  Moreover, he left no note, no message, no way to reach him.  It was like he vanished and never existed.

I grieved when he left me.  I grieved when the dreams stopped.  I grieved that I hadn’t grieved in over a year.

Now he was here with me.  I knew it was him, it had to be.

When we were together, it was like he could walk through walls.  There was nothing, ever, to keep him from me.  Especially not when I needed him, and I needed him so much in the beginning.

I chanced a look up from my page and smiled to myself and to him. I wasn’t crazy. He really was in my living room sitting in the old, tatty, leather club chair that we bought from a consignment store the first winter.  When he left, I couldn’t bear to sit in it, it was his chair. Just because I didn’t sit in it didn’t mean I didn’t smell the leather on a regular basis.  It smelled of his aftershave and the musk that he exuded just by being.  I still have the bottle of aftershave and open it from time to time.

“Hi,” I said with as much calm as I could muster.  “It’s been a long time.”

1    1. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2    2. The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien.
3    3. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4    4. Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
5    5. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
      6. The Bible
6    7. Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
7    8. Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell   
      9. His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
8   10. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
9   11. Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
10 12. Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
11 13. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
      14. Complete Works of Shakespeare
12 15. Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
13 16. The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien  
      17. Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
14 18. Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger . 
      19. The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger  
      20. Middlemarch - George Eliot
15 21. Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
16 22. The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
17 23. Bleak House - Charles Dickens 
     24. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
18 25. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
     26. Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
19 27. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
20 28. Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck  
      29. Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll   
      30. The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
21 31. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
22 32. David Copperfield - Charles Dickens 
      33. Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
23 34. Emma - Jane Austen
24 35. Persuasion - Jane Austen  
      36. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis
      37. The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
      38. Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres  
      39. Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
25 40. Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
26 41. Animal Farm - George Orwell
27 42. The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
      43. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
      44. A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
      45. The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
28 46. Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
      47. Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy   
      48. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
      49. Lord of the Flies - William Golding
29 50. Atonement - Ian McEwan
      51. Life of Pi - Yann Martel
30 52. Dune - Frank Herbert
      53. Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
31 54. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
      55. A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth 
      56. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
32 57. A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens 
      58. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
      59. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon   
      60. Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
33 61. Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
34 62. Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
      63. The Secret History - Donna Tartt  
      64. The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
35 65. Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
      66. On The Road - Jack Kerouac
      67. Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
36 68. Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding 
      69. Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
      70. Moby Dick - Herman Melville
37 71. Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens 
      72. Dracula - Bram Stoker 
      73. The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
      74. Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
      75. Ulysses - James Joyce
38 76. The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath 
      77. Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome 
      78. Germinal - Emile Zola
      79. Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
      80. Possession - AS Byatt
39 81. A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
      82. Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
40 83. The Color Purple - Alice Walker
41 84. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
42 85. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
      86. A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
43 87. Charlotte's Web - EB White
44 88. The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
45 89. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
      90. The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
      91. Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
46 92. The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
      93. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
47 94. Watership Down - Richard Adams
      95. A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
48 96. A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
49 97. The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
50 98. Hamlet - William Shakespeare
      99. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – Roald Dahl
     100. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

My father lived a life of obligation and responsibility.  He had learned from his father that at all costs, you provide for family first and take care of your own needs later.  Most importantly, tell no one about your goals, your dreams or desires; those things get in the way of obligation. 

He never told us anything that he wanted, ever.  I was about ten when I realized that we bought presents for my father that we wanted him to have; he bought the ones he wanted himself.  I think that Christmas I got him a Snoopy tie-pin; he bought a set of World Book Encyclopedias.

His medicine cabinet was littered with bottles of aftershave his daughters thought smelled amazing, he quietly poured them out a little at a time so we would think he was using them.  There is a reason I think all expensive aftershave should smell like Old Spice, it was how he smelled no matter what the bottle above the sink said.

He had been ill for years when he finally made a request; it came indirectly through my mother.  He wanted a lemon ice cream or anything frozen that was lemon.  On a hospital stay, the only pleasant thing about it was the lemon dessert he had with most meals.  It had given him comfort and solace while he was there. He talked about it with everyone who would listen. 

I was gifted with the task of finding it. It was the one thing I might be able to obtain for him that he couldn't buy for himself.  I saw it as the one present that would be the right size, the right color, and in season.  Due to his illness, time was of the essence; so I accepted the obligation to find it post haste.

I went to all the local groceries and found nothing that resembled what he wanted.  There was no ice cream, sorbet, sherbet, or gelato that fit his description of the perfect frozen treat.  The nutritionist at the hospital narrowed my search down by giving me the name of the manufacturer; they were local.

I found the address in the phone book and left work early to obtain a small container.  I was excited that I could fulfill a desire the man with no desires had.  It was my one shot to be important to him and make even a minor difference in his discomfort.

I walked into a factory met by scowls and distrust.  Who was this rumpled and harried woman looking for their signature gelato?  Why couldn't she just order it with dinner at the Italian restaurant next door like everyone else.

The owner came out from his office and spoke with me, determined to send me away with nothing.  I explained about my father's health, the hospital who initially gave it to him, and the fact this was probably his dying wish.  I was sold a large tub at cost within five minutes.

Driving to my parents' home with my bounty, I called my mother to give her the good news.  She had been getting bad news about this gelato and accepted poor substitutes of it for days.  Her freezer was full of failed attempts to provide him the taste and comfort he so desired.

He was asleep when I got there, she tried to shush me so he could get just a bit more rest.  The prize was unveiled for her and when it was I needed to shush her.

He woke a few minutes later, smiled, but ready for another disappointment.  Someone handed him a spoon and small bowl of the frozen present.  He was skeptical, but accepted it with grace.  The tiny bit he took changed him completely.

"This is it.  This is exactly what I wanted.  How did you do it?" he asked.

I've never been the one who got things right.  Never had I been the conquering hero.  Dependable, yes, exceptional as a person in my father’s eyes, no.

This was my shining moment and I shared it with him.

He had lemon geltao with every meal for the next week; one tiny teaspoon at a time.  It was all he could eat and he wanted to savor it each time he had a mouthful.

He died within a week of getting what I thought of as my present.  The family shared the gelato after his funeral.  .

As a child, I felt sorry for my father; always meeting the obligations and expectations of others.  Several days after he died, I realized that sometimes when you can meet the obligations and expectations of someone you are the one receiving the gift.

Their Special Circles

              They met when she was literally a babe in her mother’s arms.  She was less than two months old; he was nineteen.  She was the light and love of his life.  In their two years together, they shared love, laughter, and blue eyes. 

              When Mary was a small child and cried out to be held, her uncle Matt was the one who brought her peace and comfort.  He was able to soothe her when no one else could; it was the gift he shared with her.  Together the world fell away and nothing and no one else existed. 

               He went away to college to complete his education.  He died that fall, right after her second birthday.  He was twenty one, she was two years and twenty one days old.  The entire family was devastated by the loss, except for the young child.  She knew something was wrong, someone was missing, but couldn’t express it.

                No matter where she went, ever present were swirls of circles.  They appeared everywhere, in fallen leaves, in her sand box, even the toys in her playroom all formed into circles.  The circles followed her childhood.  If she had a sad time or moment, she would find something in the shape of a circle and go to the middle of it.

                At one point, I visited my niece when she was four; she babbling amidst a circle of blocks.

                “Mary, who are you talking to?” I asked as I seated myself outside of the circle.

                “It’s Matt.  He plays with me when I’m sad,” she said.  “Sometimes I play with him when he’s sad.”

                “Are you sad today, sweetie?”

                “No.  But he is.”

                “Can you see him?”

                Her answer was a smile.  “You’re silly.  Of course I can see him.”

                Okay.  “Tell me what he looks like.”

                She described my brother just as he’d looked the last time they’d been together.  From the color of his hair to his glasses, even the fact that he always wore jewel toned plaid shirts; she described him as though she’d seen him in a picture.  I had taken that picture, but never shared it with anyone, it lived in my scrapbook that I shared with no one.

                “Is he sad very much?” I asked.

                “No. “

                “But you said he comes when you are sad or he is.”

                “Well, he also comes when I ask him to come.  He plays games with me.”

                Matt did have infinite patience with small children, games, and their lack of rules. 

                As Mary aged, my sister told me that Matt came by less and less but that Mary still talked about him.  He was more real to her than her step brother and step sister.  He was a more constant friend.  He was her confidant in all things.

                When she was twelve, she wanted to learn to dance.  She chose ballet, of course, because so many of the foot patterns made circles.  The fact that the tutus were a big attraction meant nothing, it was all about the feet and turning in a circle whenever possible.

                After her one and only recital I asked her if it was a good evening.  “It was perfect.”  She gushed about the entire experience and how much work it had been.  It seemed that the work involved was enough to make her decide to give up a dream of dance long term.

                “Do you know what made it amazing?” she asked.

                “No, what made it amazing?”

                “Matt was in the front row.  I could see his smile from the stage.”  She then adjusted her body so she was arranged just the way he used to sit.  Her smile even looked like his; it haunted me for days.  I was thrilled to see the smile again, I’d forgotten just how much I’d missed it.

                “Do you still talk to him?” I asked.  I hoped she did and that he wasn’t just an imaginary friend when she was so very, very young.

                “Sure.”  It seemed that they talked about everything :  school, boys, horses.   The place she wanted to go to learn to ride horses trained in a riding ring, again with the circle. 

                When she turned sixteen, I asked what she wanted.  She wanted a pendant that had a circle on it; they were just coming into fashion.

                “Mary, what is the significance of the circle?”  I’d wanted to ask for years, but  I didn’t want to hear that it was a coincidence.

                “Aunt Leslie,” she said looking at me like I was a bit of a dim bulb, “all of life is a circle.  We are born, we live, we die, we see our loved ones again.  Everyone is part of the circle, just because we don’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

                About the time of the ‘great revelation’ as I thought of it, my other sister had twins.  As infants, Danielle and Mitch had amazing personalities, always laughing and smiling.  I wonder just how often my brother stopped by to play with them, because they have also been drawn to circles.  

Life is a Dance

 
I envied ballerinas during my childhood.  It is undoubtedly why I nagged my mother for dance lessons.  I didn’t care what kind of dance I learned as long as there was an outfit to wear when I was in class.  A recital would have been a bonus, but I was too shy to think that was realistic.  I thought that I would instantly be transformed into one of them if I had the right outfit and the right shoes.

I was wrong. 

No amount of trying made me graceful, limber, strong, or talented like the other girls.  It was like trying to turn a Rottweiler into a chicken or duck; interesting as an experiment, but not realistic.  All it did was bring out my inner rottie and make her want to whimper on the front porch.

I continued to envy the girls who could and did dance; they were everything I wasn't and could never be.  They were all beautiful, had rhythm, and seemed to know where they were going.  Did I mention the outfits?  Pale pink really isn't my color, but I could have worked it, really.

I wanted to try it all, looking for the perfect uniform that would let me fit in and be creative at the same time.  It was a disaster.  I was too short for the fire department and the police.  I was too squeamish to become a nurse.  My name didn't look good embroidered on the shirt at the filling station.

Did I mention the shoes?  Most of the shoes that looked good on me, looked awful with the uniform and if the uniform shoes fit and worked, they were, shall we say, horrible? 

Through my adolescence, I did find things I enjoyed. But I kept coming back to the shoes and the outfits.  I could have saved the economy of small countries on what I thought I'd be willing to spend on shoes.  Ultimately, I had pictures of the shoes in magazines I dreamed of and I made practical choices and decisions.

When I was no longer quite so 'formative' I discovered a rhythm and a pacing to drama and poetry.  I found that while I didn't always read it well to myself, when I read it aloud it took on new life and new meaning. 

Words had rhythm and grace.  I never would have thought it.

Have you ever heard the typewriter song?  It is classical, sort of, and the main instrument is a manual typewriter.  That became the music my fingers moved to, responded to, and embraced. 

I have never had the grace or rhythm to dance, not on my own and not with a group.  My dancing is a very painful thing to watch.  It is sad when even small children who don't know better turn away from you when you are trying to go with the flow and let, as the words of the old song say, the rhythm move you.

I was coming home from a trip visiting a friend when I stopped at a pie shop to take a break before the last junket of my journey.  This tiny store is known statewide for the qualities of their pies, who am I to fly in the face of such a reputation?  I bought two to take home.

As I was paying for my purchase, I spotted a cookie jar next to the cash register with some overly large, chocolate chip cookies.  I lifted the lid and was transported back more than twenty years to my grandmother’s kitchen.

My grandmother expressed her love with food, always food.  She would be upset if you didn’t finish everything on your plate, and yet she dreaded it because it meant that she would have to cook again. 

When summer vacation plans were finalized, she would begin baking cookies.  She baked for weeks and then would take them to friends and hide the treats in her freezer.  Upon our arrival, the four kids would go on a seek and destroy mission until we located at least one baggie of confectionary delights. 

The smell was sweet, pungent, and perfect.  She had a heavy hand with the vanilla and only used the sweet, never the semi-sweet, chocolate chips.  Even the slightly over browned cookies were all perfect in my estimation because they were made with one main ingredient, love.

I extracted three cookies from the jar and paid for them.  One was for me, the other for my husband, the final was for my freezer. 

The freezer?

Sure.  By buying one for the freezer, I could take off little bits to smell when life got hard or I got lonely.  At least that was my strategy; I ate it two days later.

Several months ago when my life got overwhelming, I took myself on a road trip to the little pie shop.  It was my only destination.  I bought myself three cookies, smelled the love of my grandmother and instantly felt better.

Long ago and far away, I aspired to be a Tarot card reader.  I bought the cards, read the books, found other readers, asked questions and played with the cards.  I never thought I’d make a living at it, but I wanted answers and I wanted someone else to provide them. 

I like to think that I read them, I really do, but in my heart of hearts I know that I didn’t.  I could see impressions but that was about it; true readers have a gift and they work at honing this gift.  I wanted the easy way.  In some ways I still do, I guess.

I no longer aspire to read the Tarot, but I found myself drawn to them again.  When I was younger, I didn’t want to resemble any of the major Arcana that wasn’t at least a queen no matter the suit.  My best friend at the time kept telling me I was a Fool.  I would be hurt and angry at her appraisal of me. 

Today I stared with Zero, AKA the Fool.

I’ve changed my mind from all those years ago.  Now, yes now, I want to be the Fool when I grow up.  The Fool is the one who starts everything.  He/she is the first step in the process, journey, adventure.  The Fool doesn’t look at the potential demise or problems, he/she simply acts and does.  Knowledge and wisdom can be found if needed later; the point of the Fool and of life is to live and to do.

 Maybe being the Fool  doesn’t sound like such a bad thing, does it?