Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story or poem using the following words or images: memory, mist, moonlight, mosaic, mask.
This week’s poem comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series. Find out more at www.corgicapers.com.
The poem was inspired by staring at the numbers of the date of this post: 2-20-2020 and the imagery of its repetition.
Echo
By Val Muller
The moonlight wakes me,
It cuts the night,
Corporeal.
What does it want? What does it know? How many eons of time in its glow?
I sit up in bed,
Bare feet on carpet,
Toes splayed on the mosaic
Of moonlight through trees.
The room is cold,
But I do not shiver.
I rise, silent. Déjà vu.
I have done this before.
A memory:
Once, at age eight,
I awoke in moonlight.
It called me to the mirror,
And I looked.
Half in dream, I peered and saw myself.
My mind transcended the glass:
Someone peering back at me,
Someone old.
Familiar but foreign,
Comforting but startling,
The eyes were the same:
Sadder, more tired, more intelligent,
But mine.
I saw myself seeing myself,
And I shivered.
Child-thin body staring at womanly curves,
Tangled locks echoing graying ones.
What etched those wrinkles in my face?
What lessons sculpted wisdom in my eyes?
I don’t remember returning to bed,
But I must have.
I awoke the next morning
And I was still a little girl.
Now, the moonlight invites me.
It lights the night,
A friend.
What does it want? What does it know? How many eons of time in its glow?
In the mirror, it bathes
My gray locks in misty aura.
My wrinkled brow
Speaks of hardship and victory,
Of disappointment and loss,
Of survival.
The gossamer light cuts through the mask.
I slip behind the glass to find, perplexed,
Entranced, a little girl of eight,
Staring back at me like maybe I’m a mother
Or a savior or a ghost.
Like somehow I have answers.
But instead I bring more questions.
How can I possibly have been that small,
That young, that naïve, that creative?
How could I ever have had that much confidence and energy,
And why on Earth would any of us
Trade it all
For wisdom?
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
Welcome to The Spot
Writers. This month’s prompt is
“someone always wears the same hat because of some secret and/or mysterious
reason”.
This week’s story comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara
dreams, reads, edits texts, translates, and occasionally writes in two
languages. She also has a lot of fun.
The Man in the Detective Hat
by Chiara De Giorgi
As
a child, I was often alone. Alone, but not lonely. In fact, I would spend hours
playing outside with my imaginary friend. At least, I think he was imaginary…
I’m not sure of anything anymore, these days. Reveries and reality overlap and
leave me baffled and wondering.
Who
was that guy I spent hours and hours with, exploring, pondering, looking for
meaningful answers? And why was he always wearing a hat? I remember wanting to
ask him to take it off, but I never dared.
Now,
what was his name again? Did he have
a name? If he was an imaginary friend, he might not have had a name, unless I
gave him one. Did I give him a name? Maybe not. It wasn’t necessary after all.
I would walk, climb a tree, swim in the lake, ride my bike in the woods… and he
would be there with me, always ready to talk, explain, ask poignant questions.
But never giving answers, now that I think of it.
I
had to understand everything all by myself, he just helped me reason, find the
answers to my own riddles.
Maybe
that’s why I never asked him why he never took off his hat. It was a funny
detective hat, but it wasn’t funny on him. Hey, what if he was a detective for
real? What if he was investigating my family, what if he wanted to frame me or
my parents for some terrible deed? I sure hope he was my imaginary friend, and
not some real detective.
What’s
that thing in the corner of my closet? Wait, is that… Oh, my. It’s a detective
hat! How peculiar! What is it doing here? I don’t remember ever having one. It
looks… It looks exactly the same as my childhood imaginary friend’s. Now, if this
were his hat, it would mean he took
it off, he he he. I wonder… How would I look in it? I’ll put it on and look at
myself in the mirror. There.
Goodness!
I look like him! Same height, same body structure, same complexion – pale and a
bit rough. Even the same expression in the eyes, thoughtful and wise.
Oh,
gosh. That was unexpected.
I am the man in the detective hat. I know,
now, why I can never take it off. Look what happened when I did. No, you don’t
want to know, trust me. Just forget you ever met me. And should you find a
detective hat laying around somewhere, please leave it there. Don’t ask
questions, just close your eyes and quietly go away. Some mysteries are
supposed to stay unsolved, some questions need to remain unanswered forever.
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie:
https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil
Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write
about someone who always wears the same hat for some secret and/or mysterious
reason.
Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the
Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series. Find out more at www.corgicapers.com.
Hatless
By Val Muller
I hate the cold. Absolutely hate it. Nome, Alaska? Not
exactly tropical. You’re not allowed to complain about the cold until you’ve
wintered in Alaska.
What I wouldn’t give to get out of here.
Sitting here in my car, heat blasting, I wonder: Am I really
going to leave? I’ve got a security deposit, but it’s kind of like chewing off
your arm in desperation, right? Just leave that and run. Heck, the landlord
deserves that bonus. Never going to find a new tenant in the middle of this Ice
Age.
But part of me thinks I’m crazy for doing this. A plane
ticket and two suitcases. And that’s it. Just fly somewhere tropical and start
over.
Crazy.
But crazier than moving to the coldest town I could find as
soon as I came of age?
I pull my hat lower and grab the door handle. I could just
as easily walk back into my apartment. Status quo is easiest. And the cost of
leaving this ice prison is a high one. Even though I hate the cold, there’s something
about your own bed, your own clothes. Am I really just going to leave it all?
I pull the hat away just for a moment and cringe as I look
in the rearview mirror. This is what everyone will see. This will be their
first impression—everyone’s first impression—for all eternity. I’m not sure
which is worse, the ones that try to ignore the scar but just end up staring at
it, or the ones who ask about it outright. You’re not allowed to complain about
fitting in until you’ve lived with this kind of atrocity etched into your face
by your own father.
But 30 hit hard. On the way to work, glancing in the mirror,
I wondered: am I really going to wear this hat forever? Am I really prepared to
hide from this scar for the rest of my life? To the extent that I will remain
in self-inflicted exile? For what? To wait for death?
Really.
And then I saw it on TV. A commercial for a cruise line.
Those palm trees, the warmth of the sun on those bronzed bodies. What I wouldn’t
give to live there. I think once I knew what warm sunlight felt on the skin. It’s
like a nearly-forgotten dream.
But they don’t wear winter hats in the tropics. Everyone I
meet will ask me about the scar. And then I’ll have to get into it: the alcohol,
the abuse, the countless foster homes, the point of life being simply to
survive. And then I’ll endure the pity, the embarrassment for having asked.
I cut the engine and pull the hat back on. Jingle the keys.
Take a step toward my apartment. And then a demonic gust comes out of the north
and chills my soul. So I hurry back to the car, turn on the engine, and gun it
toward the airport.
The Spot Writers—Our
Members:
Val Muller: https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie:
https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “unfinished business.” In the great irony of the prompt, I am a bit late in posting two stories that are both about the New Year. Here’s to the rest of the year going a bit more punctually! -Val
This week’s story comes
from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara dreams, reads, edits texts, translates, and
occasionally writes in two languages. She also has a lot of fun.
Unfinished
Business & New Beginnings
by
Chiara De Giorgi
Dear New Year,
May you be happy!
I don’t have any promises
for you. I don’t have any propositions or resolutions either. What I do have, is a bunch of unfinished
business from last years. All the things I decided to do or be in the past few
years… I’ve been slowly working my way through them.
First example is a
classic: the gym. My subscription is almost two years old, now. For a while I
go three times a week, then I skip three months in a row, then I start going
again. Every time I tell myself that what’s important is not the times I stop,
but the times I start over. Quite silently – not to brag – I’ve managed to go once
a week for the past four months now. Granted, once a week is not that much, but
it’s once a week more often than I did the previous months. My goal: keep up
with the good habit!
Another, related, topic
is diet, or better: nutrition. Same story as the gym: I manage to cook and eat
healthy food for a while, then do a cheat day, which becomes a cheat week, then
a cheat month, and we’re back to square one. What I noticed, though, is that
the “cheating times” have been getting shorter, although more frequent. As a
result, I ended Old Year with less pounds on myself than I had at the
beginning. If all goes well, when you’re finished I’ll be even slimmer.
(Excuse me while I bite
into this chocolate bar. It’s been lying around since Christmas: another
unfinished business from last year!)
I’m finally getting the
language certification I started studying for years ago.
What else? Getting to
the bottom of my TBR list seems a bit far-fetched, so I won’t even mention it.
I could get to the bottom of this unfinished bottle of wine- easily done!
So, see: picking up the
trail of my unfinished business from last years is the way to go. For the rest,
I’ll just try to take one month at a time, tasting each moment, feeling alive.
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Val Muller:
https://valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A.
MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats:
https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De
Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “unfinished business.” As with the post for January 16, I am ironically late in posting this. Here’s to the rest of the year being more punctual! -Val
Today’s post is written by Phil Yeats. Last December, Phil (using his Alan Kemister pen name) published his most recent novel. Tilting at Windmills, the second in the Barrettsport Mysteries series of soft-boiled police detective stories set in an imaginary Nova Scotia coastal community is available on Amazon.
New Year’s Resolution
By Phil Yeats
In our staff break room on January second, four years
ago, I announced that I would finish my novel by year’s end. On the following
January second when I entered the break room for my morning coffee, I received
a lot of flack with several people commenting about unfinished business. Their
voices dripped with false sincerity as they asked when I’d have my earth-shattering
novel finished.
It was my fault. I
was far too vociferous when I announced my resolution the previous January. I
waxed poetic about the book and insisted timely completion was critical.
The comments were
even more pointed during the next two years, but today, as I approached the
break room on the morning of January second, I had everything under control. I
came in early, took my coffee to a prominent table, and tucked my carrier bag underneath.
My colleagues
filed in, collected their coffee or tea, and the first group approached my
table.
“How goes it with
the never-ending battle with your literary muse?” my chief tormentor asked. He
swept his arm around the room. “You really must get it finished. We’d all buy
copies.”
I smiled sweetly,
reached into my bag and pulled out a copy. “Hot off the press, and for you, a
special price, twelve dollars.”
They all came
forward and meekly purchased their copies. I didn’t leave the break room until
I’d sold all the copies I brought with me.
Back in my office, I counted my ill-gotten earnings, two hundred and sixteen dollars. The libations after my seven-thirty draw at the curling club that evening would be next. And after choir practice on Thursday evenings, we always went to the pub. My friends in both places had been just as dismissive of my chances of finishing the book as my work colleagues. After they’d succumbed to their guilt and bought a book, I’d have sold the fifty copies I ordered.
I was fortunate enough to have two weeks off of work this
holiday season. With my kids a little older, and the youngest taking consistent
2-3 hour naps each day, I was able to get more accomplished than I have in the
past three years.
In addition to completing several workouts and some unfinished projects around the house (including building a bench for the fireplace that we don’t use), I finished the draft of a novel—the first major work I’ve completed since I had kids.
But there was also some down time—time when the kids were
playing. They are not old enough to play unsupervised, so their playing means I
need to find things to do that keep me occupied but leave me focused enough to
keep half an eye on the little ones.
I thought I’d share a few of the fun (and even educational)
YouTube videos I watched.
The first two are mesmerizing to watch. They are produced by
an artist named Andrea Love who works in wool. There’s not much more to be
said, except to watch it:
The next is a video in which scientists use the world’s
fastest camera to watch light as it travels. The camera is able to take
billions of frames per second and turn it into a video (processing one of the
videos took eight hour for their computer!). It’s interesting to watch the results,
as it shows how light actually moves—in ways the human eye cannot see.
Of course there’s tons out there, but I thought I’d share
two that stood out to me.
When my daughter saw what I was watching, she asked if her
brain would turn to mush if she watched with me (we often tell her that her
brain will turn to mush if she watches too much TV). I explained to her that
some things on TV are educational, and then we looked up some documentaries
about Ancient Egypt, which fascinates her.
I’ve been reading lately about how hard it is for the
current generation of kids to find happiness because social media is such a
powerful influence in their lives, and they are always online, comparing their lives
to the lives of others. While this is one of the downsides of the Internet, it’s
important to keep in mind that as many liabilities as there are with the Internet,
there are also benefits as well.
Welcome
to The Spot Writers. This month’s
prompt is “unfinished business.”
This week’s
story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Cathy’s novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK,
a psychological drama, is available from her locally or on Amazon. MISTER
WOLFE, the sequel, coming soon!
***
New
Beginnings by Cathy MacKenzie
“We need to go,” Tim said. “Now.”
Lisa glanced up at her boyfriend. “Right
now?”
“Yes. It’s time.”
“But I’m not ready.”
“Well, get ready.”
Five minutes later, Lisa appeared
from the bedroom. “Do I look okay?”
Tim smiled. “You look gorgeous. As
always. But it’s dark. No one’s gonna see you.” He snatched his car keys from
the hook. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”
Half an hour later, Tim parked the
car by the wrought iron fence, and they walked to the gate.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” Lisa
said, gripping his hand.
Tim glanced over. “Sure you can. No
one will know.”
“But…”
It was his turn to grip her hand. “It’s
okay. I gotta do this.” He flicked open the trunk and withdrew the shovel.
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, quit asking.” He scanned the
area. “It’s late. And dark. There’s no one here.”
The full moon illuminated the
cemetery, highlighting grey pillars reaching to Heaven. Some short and squat. Others tall and skinny.
Mark had been skinny. He took after his father.
She gulped in a great breath, surprised
the air was so fresh. What had she expected? The smell of death? Decay?
Decomposition? Perhaps. Except they were several yards from the first row of
graves, and the death smell couldn’t travel that far, could it? And those
nearest gravesites were old, from the 1800s. The most recent were at the back.
Any odour should be long gone after that many years. She shook her head. Quite
being so silly, she admonished herself. She’d frequented the cemetery
previously. No smell existed.
Tim slammed down the trunk lid.
“Sssh, quiet,” she whispered. “Someone
might be around.”
“Look around.” He spread his arms. “No
one’s here.”
“Could be someone behind the bushes.
Or in the trees.”
“Hush, woman. There’s no one.”
She leaned into him. Inhaling his
cologne. Gentleman Musk. She had bought it for his birthday the previous month.
She took another deep breath. Fall, her favourite season, was in the air.
Cooler temperatures always arrived mid-August. She’d miss that tell-tale sign
if she left, and she hated the thought of leaving Halifax and moving a thousand
kilometres away.
Tim was adamant he must finish what
he’d started. But what had he started? A
new life nineteen years previously? Sex. That’s all it was. But, they’d been
married, so it was more than sex. Their life together was to have lasted
forever. A match made in Heaven. All that jazz. But was anything forever?
“Unfinished business,” he’d said. “It
needs to be done.”
Unfinished business. Ironic. Not even
the new year, but it was as if he must make a fresh start. New city. New job. Cut
ties with family.
But he—they—couldn’t leave without Mark.
He had to go, too.
They walked the rest of the way in
silence.
“Here,” she whispered. “Here he is.”
Tim thrust the shovel into the soil.
They hadn’t buried the urn as deeply as she’d expected. Perhaps Tim had known his
son would be unearthed. That this wasn’t his final resting place.
Tears cascaded down her cheeks. This
was wrong. But she kept her thoughts to herself. Wouldn’t do to upset Tim, and
the task was undeniably harder for him. Mark was his flesh and blood, not hers.
His son. She hadn’t had children. Discovered during her first marriage that she
couldn’t conceive.
Tim had changed since Mark’s death.
Not yet six months since he died. And when Tim got the transfer, he pretended
he didn’t want it, but she knew differently. She hadn’t wanted to leave with
him although he had expected her to jump for joy and obey, as usual. She had
been so done with him numerous times but kept going back. “Give me a bit of
time,” she had said. “I’ll come later.” He hadn’t been happy, but he didn’t
argue as much as she had expected. Secretly, she was glad. It was her way out
of their relationship.
She clutched his arm. She did love
him. At that moment, anyhow. Felt his
anguish. But any love she’d had for him over the past year of their time
together had slowly vanished. “You okay?”
“Yep. Almost done.”
The moon shone on the silver lid half
buried in the soil. She teared. Such an untimely death. But was any death
timely?
He reached down for the urn. He
brushed away the dirt and grasped it to his chest. “He’s back.” He smiled. “I
have him back.”
“Janine won’t be happy.” Her heart
thumped. She should have kept her mouth shut.
“She won’t know. She’ll never know.”
He set Mark on the ground, picked up the shovel, and tossed dirt haphazardly
into the hole.
What would Mark think? Would he be
happy to be removed? To be taken kilometres away to a strange place? And Janine.
She’d never liked Janine, Mark’s mother, Tim’s ex-wife. But the woman grieved
as any mother would and faithfully visited him. Was it fair to let her sit with
him, talk to him, mourn over him? Kneel by an empty hole?
“Tim, no. We can’t do this.”
“What?”
“This. What about Janine?”
“To hell with Janine. He’s my son, too.”
“But…”
He walked to the edge of the cemetery
and threw the shovel into the woods. When he returned, he picked up his son. “You
with me, or what?”
“Yeah, but…” She eyed the woods. What
would happen when someone found the shovel? And the grave. So obviously
disturbed.
Disturbed.
Her boyfriend looked as disturbed as
the grave. A madman shedding tears.
“I’m going. You come or not,” he
said.
She stood, rooted like the trees bordering
the cemetery. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t walk away with stolen ashes. Mark
deserved to be left in peace. Dead or alive, his mother deserved her son. The
thought of her coming to his grave, not knowing it was empty—no, she couldn’t
be a part of this.
He turned. “Well…”
“No, I—”
“Fine. Stay. I’m going.”
They hadn’t been happy the past few
months. It was more than Mark’s death. Simple life getting away from them, and
she deserved more. She hadn’t given notice—to her employer or her landlord. Perhaps
she had known all along she wasn’t going to leave with him.
She raced to the woods and picked up
the shovel. Tim was still visible in the dim light. She could easily catch up.
He was unaware she’d crept up behind
him. She held the shovel above her head, and the scene played out in slow
motion: Tim dropping the urn, Mark hitting the ground and his ashes scattering
like lime, Tim falling…dead…
The shovel felt weightless in her
hand. She lowered her arm.
She couldn’t do it.
“Tim, we should take the shovel with
us. Your fingerprints are on it.” And now mine, she thought.
Tim turned. “What?”
“The shovel.”
“Yeah, okay.”
New beginnings, she thought. Now that Tim’s finished his unfinished business.
Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is
“unfinished business.” Today’s tale comes to you from Val Muller, author of the
Corgi Capers mystery series (www.corgicapers.com).
Unseasonable
By Val Muller
It was after Christmas, that relaxing lull before going back to work but after the disasters of family gatherings had already happened. Normally, Sharon would be cooped up inside, organizing her holiday things in hope of having a better holiday next year. Like maybe her mom wouldn’t gripe about her house being un-renovated, or her dad would stop talking about grandkids. Or her aunt wouldn’t mourn her as an old maid–she was barely thirty. And besides, after the way her little nieces and nephews tore apart her home every year, what rush was she in to spawn her own?
After the family went home, Sharon kept inside. If she felt
especially trapped or restless, she might venture out to tackle some
post-holiday clearances. Once in a while she could find stocking stuffers for
next year.
But mostly she stayed in. She would stand at her sink with her endless line of dishes to wash…the cookies relatives had brought and left all came in their own containers which were never dishwasher safe, the fancy turkey platter and silver and crystal all had to be hand washed, so she lined it up on the counter to do a couple pieces at a time, and since no one stayed overnight, she could sometimes stretch this task out for days. Each piece of crystal had to be hand-dried and placed in its little box. A gift from Mother, thinking Sharon ought to have grown up serving-ware by now. While she labored, she looked out at her yard at the unfinished garden that always would be done “maybe next weekend.”
It have been left by the previous owners and included a
lovely birdhouse and bird bath that the owners explicitly listed in the
contract as conveying with the house. The woman, her name was Martha or
something like that, invited Sharon over for coffee before the house got sold.
She wanted to tell her things about the house, important things. Like how
important it was to feed the birds, since they had grown accustomed to it. So
for the first couple years, Sharon had kept the bird feeder stocked and the
bird bath full of water. But it was old, and the bird bath concrete absorbed
water, which froze each winter. It started out with a few cracks until it
wouldn’t hold water and then the birds went away and then the big wind storm
came and snapped the birdhouse in half.
Without the birds, there was no need to weed, and the whole
thing got overgrown. For the last two years it had been staring at her every
time she did the dishes. It was one of those unfinished things that she never
found time for since it was so dependent on the weather. But it always seemed
there was something more important. The timeliness of Thanksgiving preparations
or Christmas cleaning or wrapping presents.
And then when there was so much time in the winter, it was
too cold or buried in snow so that there was no use thinking about it until
spring. Then when spring came along, spring cleaning always seemed more
important, or going for a run, or catching up on reading.
But this year, Christmas was followed by a strange warm
streak. It had been off Sharon’s radar because she always assumed Christmas was
followed by cold. She had her snow boots already taken out and snow shovel wind
up in the garage ready to go. So when she went to take the trash out and the
weather was 60 degrees and then 61, she knew it was her second chance.
She hurried inside, knowing at any moment winter weather
could return. The crystal could go in the dishwasher later, for all she cared.
What would it hurt? And she donned her gardening boots and work pants, clearing
out weeds and dilapidated bird equipment. Several new gift cards would help
provide new ones.
As she stood back to survey her handiwork, a voice cleared
its throat above her. It was a neighbor, a young man she had seen a few times
before, but who has time to talk to neighbors these days?
He was standing on his balcony with a pizza box and a paper
plate. “Beautiful weather,” he said.
Sharon startled.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been watching you.” He blushed.
“I didn’t mean it that creepy. I just meant, well…they build these
houses so close together.” He chuckled. “I’m so bad at these things.
I guess what I mean to say is, I have this whole pizza, and it’s just me. Would
you like some?”
Sharon nodded. She had enough leftover turkey lately. Pizza
sounded amazing.
While it’s Friday the 13th, it’s also the height of the holiday season, a time for cheer. I’ve gathered some fun links to help you take a few minutes to relax during this hectic and dark month.
The first is a personality quiz: find out what ghost from A Christmas Carol you are (it even comes with a link to download the poster for your corresponding ghost).
Second, take six minutes to listen to “A Visit from St. Nicholas” (aka “The Night Before Christmas”). There are several versions available, but here’s one I enjoy, narrated by Stephen Fry. This poem has special meaning for me, as my dad used to read it to me over and over as a preschooler to the point that I had most of it memorized. The imagery in the poem, coupled with seeing the moon reflecting on snow in my back yard, was my literary epiphany, the moment I realized the power of words.
Finally: Do you know your MBTI personality?Psychometrics has created several Christmas resources to understand each MBTI better as they relate to the holidays. This image in particular is interesting for suggesting an appropriate Christmas film character based on your personality type. I have already watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas several times 🙂
Find more at https://www.psychometrics.com/mbtiblog/type-talk/christmas-with-personality/
(If you don’t know which MBTI personality you are, there are several unofficial but fairly accurate quizzes you can take, such as this one.)
Have a fun site to add? Leave it in the comments. Hopefully you can find a few minutes to breathe in between shopping or cleaning or getting over the latest virus that’s going around.
The anniversary of the passing of a loved one is never easy.
But sometimes little signs are there to help us cope.
I’ve been rereading (and teaching) The Grapes of Wrath, and one of my favorite characters is the
preacher Jim Casy. He quits preaching and goes off on his own to examine
meaning in life. He ultimately has an epiphany: he “foun’ he jus’ got a little
piece of a great big soul.” Sometimes things happen, little signs, little
coincidences, that make me believe we truly are all connected, and that there
is something holy and wholesome about that connectedness, perhaps even in a way
that death cannot sever.
Years ago, only a few days after the passing of my
father-in-law, I headed to work for two days just to see what the substitute
had done (or not done), to grade a few papers, touch base with my students, and
leave substitute lesson plans for the days surrounding the funeral.
The strange SUV. I took a picture so I could prove to myself later that I wasn’t imagining it.
As I put my car in park, a strange SUV pulled in—not into a
parking spot, but into the bus loop. I often sit in my car for a few minutes
before work, and in nearly a decade of doing so, I had not ever seen a car pull
into that bus loop. Not only that, but the SUV was startlingly familiar to the
SUV my father-in-law drove. And the man in it, who I saw only in silhouette,
was wearing a hat similar to one worn by, and had the same build as, my father-in-law.
I paused, staring. The man wasn’t doing anything. He was literally just
sitting. I didn’t have any fears of nefarious intent, but I wondered why he was
there. He wasn’t sipping coffee. Wasn’t looking at his phone. Was just sitting.
Something told me I should wait outside until the SUV left. I did, for a few minutes, but the SUV was not
leaving. Still, a wordless voice insisted that I stay and watch that SUV. I
reminded myself to be rational—that the reason I was in school that day was to
get grading and planning done so I could be completely present and focused for
my family in the days surrounding the funeral. So I ignored the voice screaming
at me to stay in my car and went into the school building.
Not five minutes later, the school went on lockdown for a
suspected shooter. It turned out to be nothing—just something that looked
strange on a security camera but was not actually a shooter or a gun. But that
didn’t stop the police from entering our school, keeping us on lockdown for
hours, and keeping us in a state of limbo during which we thought there was a shooter.
I had gotten there early, and there were only a few teachers
and students in the building. I spent the morning on the floor, frantically searching
social media and texting to find out from fellow teachers “on the outside” just
what was happening in our building, as during lock-down there is no
communication over the loudspeaker. It was stressful: I found myself thinking
of my husband, and what he would do if he had to mourn a father and a wife in
the same week.
The man in the SUV, I am convinced, was an angel in the
etymological sense—a messenger sent by a benevolent power to prevent me from
getting stuck in the building and spending hours in a state of stress. And he
took the shape of my father-in-law.
(I should have listened ? )
This year, something similar happened that I didn’t put
together until today. At my kids’ school, back in October, parents were able to
sign up for their kids to make a holiday-themed stuffed animal for some date in
December that I didn’t take note of. There were originally three choices: gingerbread
dog, moose, or reindeer.
(I promise this is relevant—bear with me!)
My daughter really wanted to make the gingerbread dog, and
she decided that her younger brother (too young to really make his own choice) should
make a different one than her. She suggested moose, but I thought he might
prefer the reindeer—perhaps my own personal bias.
We signed up and thought nothing of it—until we got an announcement
that the gingerbread dog was no longer available, and another animal had been
added in its place. My daughter decided of the three new choices, she preferred
the reindeer, and to avoid having the same toy as her brother, she suggested we
order the moose for her brother.
In the grand scheme of my life, this was no big deal, though
I remember my husband and I being faintly annoyed and saddened that our
daughter’s first choice had been offered, then taken away.
I also didn’t take note of the date, December 6, normally a
day shadowed with sorrow, as the day they would get to create their new holiday
friends. Today, I received a photo of my son at school enjoying his new toy,
which he made today, on the anniversary of his grandfather’s passing. It wasn’t
until then that it hit me.
The mix-up in stuffed animals was all part of a larger plan.
Between October and now, my son has fallen in love with the
children’s book “If You Give a Moose a Muffin.” He will read it with us over
and over again, and it’s the thing that calms him right before bed. He is too
young to truly communicate preferences, but fate stepped in and made sure he
got his favorite choice, even when I was not aware.
My son and his new stuffy moose.
So now, on the anniversary of his grandfather’s passing, he has
a stuffed animal that perfectly matches his favorite book. I can’t help but
think that someone is up there smiling, someone who shares a small piece of “a
great big soul,” at the joy afforded to his tiny grandson.
