Tag Archives: Story

What the Heck?

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            Suzanne Pelletier stomped into the classroom, smelling like cigarettes and violence. Her legs, encased in a blue pencil skirt, moved in short, choppy waves of anger. A matching blue blazer, all three buttons done up, strained against her bulging chest. A falling-apart bun dripped off the back of her head, and when combined with the smear of blood-red lipstick running across her cheeks, she presented herself more as a monster than a mother.

            At the front of the classroom, Mrs. Stevenson stood abruptly, her purple grading pen slowly rolling off the edge of her desk. It landed on the linoleum floor with a resounding plink.

Her calm confidence was strengthened by her attire: a pretty butterfly blouse with matching black slacks. Whereas Mrs. Pelletier towered over her, thanks to stiletto heels, the teacher’s feet were ensconced in a comfortable pair of Hoka tennis shoes.

            “Mrs. Pelletier,” Stevenson said, “I wasn’t expecting you.” She leaned forward, a welcoming smile on her face. “How can I help you?”

            Pelletier marched up to the desk, slammed her bulky purse on top, sending student papers flying, intermixing with dust motes the angry woman had stirred up.

            “You. Should. Be. Ashamed,” Pelletier said. Spittle flew, splatting against the teacher’s face. Globs dripped down, creating a Halloween-like mask. “No, you should be fired and chased out of town.”

            Stevenson wiped her face with tissues she’d pulled from a box. She dropped them unceremoniously into a trash can. She indicated they sit at a student table. “I don’t understand why you’re angry. Please, let’s talk.”

            Pelletier planted her hands on her ample hips. Her glower extended from eyebrows to hairline. “You should be fired! You should be chased out of town.”

            “Perhaps once you explain, I’ll be able to answer your concerns.” The teacher sat in one of the metal folding chairs that her student’s used. She pointed to the chair opposite her.

            The angry woman plopped into the chair, sending it’s neighbor skittering to the left. She wrapped her arms around what the teacher realized was a Louis Vuitton bag. The handles folded in on themselves, now looking more like a wet noodle than an expensive hunk of whatever.

            “Uh, why don’t we talk about your concerns?”

            Mrs. Pelletier clutched her bag even tighter to her chest, flattening it so nearly that it appeared to be empty. “You are a heathen, plain and simple. You are corrupting my son with your liberal thinking.” She sat back so forcefully that the front legs of the chair lifted, just a tad, off the floor.

            “Please don’t lean back like that,” Ms. Stevens said. “Many students have found out that these chairs tip quite easily.”

            “Don’t distract me!” Pelletier’s face crimsoned, her eyes narrowed and her lips turned into harsh lines.

            Ms. Stevens drew in a slow breath, then fought off the cigarette-induced coughs that threatened to burst forth. The son, Christopher, had said that his mother chained-smoked despite it triggering repeated asthma attacks.

            “I’m interested in specifics, Mrs. Pelletier. Can you give me a concrete example so I can understand your concerns?”

            Pelletier pulled a tattered copy of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men from her purse. Held it aloft. Waved it as if a wind was ripping through the classroom. “Heresy. Murder. Racial mixing. Denigrating stereotypes of white men.” She ruffled the pages. “It’s all in here. And you expect my son to read this.” She slammed the book down on the table.

            Ms. Stevens gave a little twitch to her shoulders to release the tension developing there. Plus to buy time to think. It didn’t work. The tightness spread down her spine, all the way to her now-curling toes.

            “The novel is required reading for all ninth graders in the state.” She nodded to reinforce the truth of her statement. When the woman’s face didn’t lose its vibrant red coloration, she said, “but if you don’t want Chrostopher to read it, he can choose an alternate novel.”

            This was true, and if the parent had read the Student Handbook that the district gave to every family, or bothered to read the course syllabus that Ms. Stevens handed out on the first day of school, Mrs. Pelletier would have known this.

            Shock registered in the parent’s eyes: the widening pupils was a dead giveaway. Stevens allowed herself a moment of self-satisfaction. She’d outwitted the woman. She’d crushed her anger into smithereens.

            “Mrs. Pelletier, did you have an alternate in mind?”

            The woman shook her head slightly. Her cheeks puffed out, her lips pursed and her breathing became ragged. “Well, no. That’s your job.”

            Ms. Stevens walked over to a bookcase at the back of the classroom. She pulled out two hard-bound novels and placed them in front of Mrs. Pelletier before returning to her seat. “Are either of these okay?”

            “I…I’m not familiar with them, so I don’t know.”

            Stevens held out her hand, smiled when the parent placed both in her open palm. “This one, Mikey, covers a trial in which a young boy is accused of assisting in the murder of a storeowner. My students enjoy the novel.” She opened the book, turned it around so the parent could see. “Parts are written in screenplay format. While most of my students aren’t familiar with this style, once they understand, they can’t stop reading.”

            Pelletier shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s till murder, right? How is that different from this book?” She pointed to the Steinbeck novel.

            “There’s a big difference.” The teacher sat back in her chair as her face lit up with satisfaction. “The time period, for one. The book I assigned took place in the 1930s, while this one,” she touched Mikey, is contemporary. The first one is set on a ranch in the Salinas Valley, while the other happens in Manhattan.”

            “How about the other one?” Mrs. Pelletier was visibly deflating as time passed. Her shoulders slumped, causing her head to dip toward her chin.

            “Dragon Fire” is set in a fantasy world. My students seem to watch a lot of movies in the genre, so find it quite fascinating.”

            Pelletier sighed. Shook her head. “Don’t tell me there’s a murder in this one as well?”

            “It’s fantasy, as I said.” Mrs. Stevens forced a smile on her face. A flimsy attempt, to be sure, but with any luck, the parent might not notice. “You’ve seen fantasy movies?”

            “Oh, of course. Our family loved the Generations series.” A light of amusement seemed to fill her eyes.

            Stevens shrugged. Tilted her head slightly. “Then you know what they’re about. Domination. Subjugation. Fight over mineral elements. Rallying the troops.”

            The parent sat back in the chair. Her chest seemed to cave inward. “I can’t win this argument, can I.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of defeat.

            “Oh, yes you can.” Stevens’ eyes lit up. “You have the right to an alternate curriculum if you so demand. All you have to do is put your concerns in writing which you submit to the district office.”

            Pelletier’s hands trembled. “You want me to write a letter?”

            The teacher nodded. Leaned forward. Smiled. “Of course. The procedures are outlined in the Student Handbook.”

            Mrs. Pelletier checked her shiny gold watch. “I have an appointment across town.” She pushed back her chair, stood, smiled. “For now, Christopher can read that book.” She tucked it inside her purse.

            She spun around and slinked to the door.

            Mrs. Stevens returned to her desk and resumed correcting student papers.

Finding Peace

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Northern California is a fairly remote part of the state. One major highway leads from the San Francisco Bay Area through towns nestled along the coast. There are no big shopping centers, some small-business manufacturing, and almost no traffic.

When her husband of five years, Victor, abandoned the family, Sandra Monroe moved up north to give herself and her two kids a fresh start. Plus she’d be far away from the cooperative farming community he’d bragged about, somewhere in state of Wyoming.

When she was preparing to move, Sandra went online looking for reasonably priced homes to rent. There was an old cabin in Fortuna that seemed to need a ton of work. The walls were covered with peeling, faded wall paper that spoke of the 1970s.

A rancher had a trailer for rent situated somewhere behind the barn. Its sides were dented, so the insides were probably dented as well.

When she found a small bungalow-style home for rent in the older part of Eureka, Sandra called the realtor. Thankfully Victor hadn’t emptied the bank account, so she had enough for the deposit and first month’s rent. Signing a contract without walking through the home was risky, but since school was starting in a week, she had to get Emma and Jake enrolled as soon as possible.

The drive north, once they got away from San Rafael, was gorgeous.  Forests lined both sides of the highway, whenever there was an open field, elk could be spotted, and a meandering river paralleled the road for a good chunk of the way.

Emma and Jake kept themselves entertained in the back seat watching movies on their iPads and playing games. Since the kids wore headphones, Sandra could listen to an audiobook she’d been wanting to read. Everyone was happy, occupied, and hopefully excited about moving someplace that none of them had seen.

Sandra hated leaving her job, teaching third grade, but thanks to glowing letters of recommendation, she quickly found a job working at a small public school, teaching fifth grade to a grand total of twelve kids.

The principal interviewed her on Zoom. He seemed professional, and stressed open communication. He believed in team-building, something Sandra wasn’t so sure about. Every time she’d been placed in a team, members either stole her ideas or discounted her suggestions.

When you stand just a tad over five feet tall, people treat you like a little kid. Sandra worked to change those perceptions, but only in her last school was she able to be treated as a valuable member of the team.

Thank goodness the home was move-in ready. They’d unpacked, then driven to the school so Sandra could meet the principal in person, look at her classroom, and get Emma and Jake enrolled.

School began two days later. Emma loved her first-grade teacher and Jake, who hated school, enjoyed his time in the computer lab. He’d joined the school’s soccer team and even though he’d never played the sport, quickly became the top scorer.

After school Emma went to the day care on campus. The way she described it, Sandra wondered if it was more like day camp than a tutorial.

Sandra had packed all easy-to-fix cookbooks, which helped her prepare meals that her kids mostly accepted.

She loved her students. They ranged in ability from well-below grade level to highly proficient, a nightmare when trying to meet all their needs. Sandra was used to adapting curriculum, but it took lots of planning.

Every night after dinner, she balanced grading papers with doing laundry, helping her kids with homework while working on next week’s lesson plans, and fretting over keeping the lights and water on, with only her salary as income.

She’d found an attorney who specialized in going after dead-beat dads, so she’d already filed for alimony and child support. Considering that Victor was working for free on that commune, unless he got bored, which was a huge possibility, there wouldn’t be any help from him any time soon.

Sandra loved her children so much. When they ran around the backyard catching insects and lizards, Sandra sat in a chair, her eyes filled with tears of wonder and joy. When they went to the park with a huge climbing structure, Sandra moved closer to offer support to Emma.

All was going well.

Autumn came in with a downpour. Since they hadn’t needed rain gear in Hayward, Sandra had to go shopping. She’d search through all the thrift stores in the area, carrying home armfuls of coats, hats, gloves, and even rain boots in the right sizes.

She struggled affording nutritious food, until she saw a flyer for assistance at the Unitarian Church.

Twice a week two women arrived in a black SUV. Both wore long dresses topped with solid-colored cardigans, their hair in neat buns. They’d pop open the back of the car, pull out boxes of food, which they delivered with huge smiles.

In order to get that assistance, Sandra had signed an agreement form that stipulate she had to be home and had to welcome in the church members. She was instructed to offer them tap water, with no ice, but no snacks of any kind. They’d share their interpretation of the Bible, pray while holding hands, and if the kids were present, place hands on the tops of their heads.

One last requirement was that the family had to attend services on Sundays.

Sandra hadn’t attended church since her marriage. Victor agreed to getting married in the Catholic church, but after that he rebelled, refused to go and wouldn’t let her take the kids.

 The Unitarian service wasn’t anything like what she’d grown up knowing, but she found the quiet and peace something she sorely needed.

Because Eureka sat right on the coast, it was subject to dense fog almost all year long. Sandra would get up in the morning, look outside, and see damp streets and muddy front yards. And that was due to heavy mist, not the rains that began in autumn and wouldn’t slow down until summer. Lightning was rare, but when it happened, all three of them panicked.

One evening in October, Sandra and Emma sat in the stands watching Jake’s soccer team lose to a team from McKinleyville, ominous-looking clouds rolled in. The wind picked up, so strong that everyone had trouble standing upright. Laughter broke out from players, spectators and officials as bent-over participants attempted to stay in place.

When the rains began, umbrellas popped open. Sandra expected the game to be called, but a parent she sat near, told her that if every outing was cancelled due to rain, or the threat of rain, nothing would take place. It was the fact of life in Eureka.

When the game finally ended, a resounding loss of 12-2, Sandra ushered her drenched kids into the car and drove home.

Her windshield wipers couldn’t keep the rain off, even at high speed. Her headlights reflected on the pavement, creating a wavy pattern that made it difficult to figure out where the lane lines were. It was a harrowing drive; made worse due to the worst traffic she’d seen since the move.

By the time they got home, the rain on the roof sounded like jackhammers, as it streamed down the windows, making it hard to see outside. Day turned into night, even though it was only three in the afternoon. They turned on a bevy of lights so Sandra could see to fix dinner, The kids watched some television, but only after taking turns in the shower.

Sandra had just placed a tray of grilled cheese sandwiches on the table when the lights flickered. She held her breath as she stared at the old-fashioned chandelier, praying silently that it wouldn’t fail.

After getting the kids settled at the table, Sandra said, “I’m really sorry, kids, but I’ve got to get these papers graded tonight.”

“What about the rule that we can’t do work while we’re eating?” Jake stuffed half a sandwich in his mouth.

“Yeah, Mom,” Emma whined, “no work at the table.”

“You’re right,” Sandra sighed. “But I heard on the radio that this storm is expected to be a bad one. The lights might go out and then my students would be disappointed when I couldn’t return their work.”

Her kids exchanged looks that told Sandra she was making a huge mistake. “How about if I work for only thirty minutes? And then we’ll do something fun.”

“We can build a fort.” Thomas swung his legs back and forth so hard that his toes cracked Sandra’s shins under the table.

“Sounds like a great idea,” she said as she rubbed away the hurt. “Rinse off your dishes and load them in the dishwasher. Then get ready for bed, including brushing your teeth.”

“Can I get the sheet?” Emma’s eyes lit up with excitement.

An ear-splitting crack shook the house, which was then followed by the zigzag streak of lightning. The three of them shot up, eyes wide open, staring out the kitchen window.

“You said it didn’t thunder up here.” Shivers shook Emma’s tiny body.

Another blast jolted the house, making Sandra wonder if it hit something close by. A smell of singed wood slowly penetrated the house, causing Jake to cough.

She handed him an inhaler, which seemed to help.

Sandra slid into her raincoat, then said, “Stay in the front room until I get back.”

“Don’t leave us,” Emma whined as she wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs.

Sandra pried off the tiny fingers, leaned over and planted a kiss on Emma’s forehead. “I won’t be gone long. I just need to make sure we’re okay.”

Just as she opened the door, thunder roared all around them, a terrifying sound that felt as if the heavens were attacking their small house. The lights went out, casting them into total darkness.

The rain intensified as more and more flashes lit up the sky.

“I don’t think you should go outside,” Jake said in his quickly deepening voice. He squared his shoulders, making himself seem taller. “I say we all stay together.”

“Mommy, I’m scared!” Emma dropped to the floor and wrapped her arms around her bent knees.

“I have an idea,” Sandra said. “There are flashlights in just about every room. Let’s divide up. Emma and Thomas, you search in the bedrooms. I’ll check the bathrooms, the front room, and the kitchen.”

“Okay, Mommy,” Emma said. The little girl’s feet refused to move.

“Hurry, now,” Sandra said as she placed a hand on her daughter’s back. “When you’ve found at least one for each of us, meet back here.”

It didn’t take long for everyone to have at least one flashlight, which they quickly turned on.

Sandra shook her head. “For right now, we’ll only use one at a time to save the batteries.”

The trio found refuge on the couch, Sandra in the middle, with Emma tucked under her left arm and Jake, pretending to be brave, leaning against the arm to her right.

The wavering light danced against the walls, illuminating the few photos Sandra had managed to hang before she had to go to work the first day. Familiar faces took on a ghoulish appearance. Corners were filled with eerie shadows that danced in the yellow light.

As a native Californian, and especially someone who had lived in the Bay Area her entire life, Sandra had little experience with thunderstorms. The few times it did thunder, there’d be only a blast or two, and then the storm moved on.

This was frightening because it was unexpected.

There was another resounding boom which shook the house as if it were a thin rag. What felt like a jolt of energy pulsed through the air, causing Emma’s long hair to fan out like a headdress, Jake’s short hair to stick up in crazy directions, and Sandra’s hair to stand on end, almost like a halo.

As suddenly as the storm hit, it left, accompanied by a suffocating stillness that fell over them like a heavy blanket. Sandra pulled her children tight against her chest.

A warm, flickering brightness filled the living room and didn’t stop. It intensified with each tick of the clock on the mantle.

Sirens filled the air, seeming to be approaching her neighborhood. The kids wanted to go outside and watch, but at first Sandra refused to let them go.

When she smelled smoke, she stood and said, “Kids, I think we should go outside.”

“It’s still raining,” Emma said as she hung back, clinging to her mom.

Jake, on the other hand, flung the front door open and dashed out into the storm without putting on a jacket.

Sandra grabbed an umbrella she’d placed in the closet, opened it as they stepped outside, then led Emma out to the gravelly road.

One look behind her and Sandra knew the flickering lights weren’t cause flashlights, but by flames dancing up the walls.

By now a bunch of neighbors had gathered outside. A heavily bearded man wearing overalls with one strap dangling, told Sandra to move on down the road in case power lines fell or the gas line exploded.

It seemed like a terrific idea, so Sandra grabbed Jake’s hand as he dashed by, tucked Emma close to her chest and quickly walked down to the nearest intersection.

A small hook-and-ladder, pulled into their street, followed by small fire engine and the Chief’s SUV. They stopped in front of her house and the fire people immediately connected hoses to hydrants and began spraying the flames.

Two firefighters went onto the roof and punched holes, while several others pulled lines of hoses into the backyard.

An older woman that Sandra had yet to meet handed the three of them cups of hot chocolate. After checking them for smoke inhalation, paramedics wrapped them in foil blankets.

More and more people line the street, most of them talking animatedly despite the late hour. What surprised Sandra was that almost everyone stayed outside until well after dawn brought light to the world.

Once the fire was out, an inspector called Sandra over to his side.

“The roof is compromised, ma’am. There’s smoke and water damage throughout the house.”

“Please tell me all the bad news,”

“Almost everything inside is gone, and what’s left is filthy.”

News of the fire quickly spread through the tight-knit community. By breakfast time, neighbors arrived with burritos, juices, and bananas. The Red Cross ushered them to a hotel in town where they could stay until permanent housing became available. The kids didn’t complain too much once they discovered an indoor swimming pool and so many Internet channels that it was practically impossible to decide what to watch.

FEMA helped Sandra complete stacks of paperwork, coordinated with her renter’s insurance, and gave them vouchers for food and clothes.

The Unitarian Church surprised Sandra by offering them housing in a rental unit they ran for people in need. Strangers dropped off clothes at the Safeway in town, as soon as everyone’s sizes were made known.

School supplies, including brand new backpacks, arrived the day before the kids were scheduled to return to class. F

One more surprise were the bags of food and coupons for local restaurants.

Sandra had never experienced such kindness before and didn’t really know how to express her thanks. That is until a local reporter stuck a microphone in her face and asked a bunch of intrusive questions.

Sandra was used to taking control of a situation: after all, she kept her class in line even when silliness and complaints threatened to derail the lessons. The reporter gave up after a while and let Sandra talk, her earnestness coming across as sincere gratitude.

One night during dinner, the family talked about what would happen next.

“We’re starting over,” Sandra said, “but this time we are surrounded by community.”

Jake nodded. “My soccer team gave me new cleats, shin guards and a uniform. It’s not my old number, fourteen, which I didn’t like. Now I’m number one, perfect for the highest scorer on the team!”

 Emma tried to hold back her tears, but couldn’t. “I wish we could go back home. I miss my friends.”

Sandra patted her daughter’s arm. “We all miss our lives there, but this seems to be a fantastic place to live. We’re more than okay,” she said. “The storm gave us more friends than we’ve ever had. Emma, your classmates cared enough to deliver homemade cookies, and Jake, your teammates offered to help you catch up with your schoolwork.”

She wiped away tears threatening to dampen her eyes.

“This is the beginning to our new lives.”

A Halloween Memory

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            The only part of Halloween that I ever liked was the endless pursuit of free candy. From the time my brother and I were in middle school, we roamed miles from home. We walked on streets whose names I never knew, knocking on the doors of anyone with lights still on. It took us hours, and at times our pillow case sacks were heavy that we had no option but to go home, empty them out, then head out again.

            I hated wearing costumes. Perhaps because I wore glasses, masks blocked my sight. I detested makeup and most of all, despised trying to come up with something to wear that could become a costume. My fallback was that of a hobo as all I had to do to play the part was put on my well-worn overalls.

            When I was thirteen my middle school decided that for Halloween, all students had to dress in costume. I immediately panicked. It was bad enough to traverse my neighborhood under cover of darkness, but now I would have to parade about campus under the horrific glare of fluorescent lights.

            I stewed over this for days.

I was a painfully shy, the girl who never raised her hand to ask or answer questions in class. I slithered down in my desk seat, my nose skimming the top of my desk, believing that if I couldn’t see the teacher, she couldn’t see me.

Dressing up at school had the potential to sink me even lower on the social scale, especially if I appeared in an unpopular or outmoded costume.

            When the day arrived, the only thing I could come up with was my mother’s WAC (Women’s Army Corp) uniform from World War II. It fit a bit snug, but I figured I could tolerate anything for the length of the festivities.

            In the morning I squeezed into the uniform, then trudged off to the bus stop. I was used to belittling looks, so the shrugs and smirks had little impact.

However, what seemed like a good idea in the morning, quickly became a terrifying experience at school.

            My teacher, thrilled to see the old uniform, made me stand in front of the class and share my mother’s story. Unfortunately, I knew little about her service.

I pronounced that she enlisted because her family was poor, a fact. That she chose the WACs because her older brother was in the Army, also true. I did know, only because of the few black-and-white photos she shared, that she was stationed in Florida where she learned to work on trucks.

            I figured that when my time was done, I could slink back into my desk. Not so. To make matters worse, my teacher sent me up and down the hall, into every single classroom, upstairs and down.

I was so terrified that I squeaked out only a few words, and wouldn’t have even got them out if it weren’t for the prompting of every teacher.

As the day progressed, the uniform seemed to get tighter and the heavy wool brought out as much sweat as a humid summer day. Perspiration pooled under my arms and down my face. It soaked the collar and the waistband of the skirt.

When lunch came, I was allowed to change clothes.

            It was such a horrible experience that I did not go out trick-or-treating that night and for several years after.

Scars

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            Some scars are invisible but powerful nonetheless. Because they can’t be seen, no sympathy is offered, no concerning questions asked.

            But what happens when you are told that your scars will be easily seen? Do you have the procedure or not?

            That’s the choice I faced when I investigated cosmetic surgery after losing eighty pounds.

            The scars on my arms would run down the backside. They might fade with time or they might remain as deep red lines. I didn’t care. I hated the flaps of saggy skin that smacked the water when I swam, so loudly that I could hear the whump, whump as the bags smacked the surface, despite wearing earplugs and a cap.

            I believed that if I could hear it that clearly, then so could everyone else.

            I hated the way my arms looked in short sleeves: huge bags of quivering flesh. I was embarrassed, humiliated and my self-esteem suffered.

            The surgery would remove the bags. I chose self-esteem over scarring.

            After recovering from that operation I investigated additional cosmetic surgery to remove the roll of skin that had pooled around my waist. Even though it was always hidden under my clothes, unless I wore an overly baggy top, the bulge was visible.

            Once again the surgeon said there would be scarring, most likely a deep red line that encircled my waist. My response? I told her that the only one who would see it was my husband. The benefit of the operation would be clearly visible: no roll of excess skin.

            Granted my scars are visible, but the surgery removed the psychological effects caused by extreme embarrassment, by my disgust of my body.

            After recovery, every time I looked in the mirror, I was shocked. Who was this woman looking back at me? She had no flabby arms, no roll of skin.

My new identity was hard to embrace.  Months went by and I still did not recognize myself, did not connect that reflection with who I was now.

Two years later I am still surprised. The scars are there, but they are badges of honor, not of shame.

On Death

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            There is no quicker way to end a pleasant conversation than by bringing up the topic of death. Beyond the saying of requisite condolences, we don’t really know how else to respond. Death touches us all eventually, but interestingly enough, we have never mastered the art of talking about it, despite the fact that we all will eventually die.      

There are many terms to describe the process of dying; passed away, late, no longer with us, moved on. For some reason we find all of these terms more palatable than the simple word, dead. We try to sweeten it up, either for the benefit of the sorrowing ones, or to mask our own discomfort.

            Some of us are lucky enough to go peacefully and quickly. We are alive one moment and gone the next. No lingering, no suffering, just blessed peace. Is it part of our genetic makeup? Are some of us destined to die with our dignity still intact? Science might not have the answers, but maybe it will someday.

            It is interesting how far we will go to avoid the topic, yet our media is inundated with gory images of death. Every day the news is filled with stories about children caught in the crossfire, families killed in horrendous car accidents, fatal home invasions and violence deliberately enacted on the targets of unsuppressed rage. We watch and listen, but seldom discuss.

            Movies and television programs thrive on the study of death, almost to the glorification of the act of killing. Almost every night, on every channel, there are police scenarios, crime scene investigations, mentalists who look into eyes and can determine guilt, and gang-style organizations that wreak havoc in our cities. Video games allow players to reenact, over and over, the countless deaths of perceived enemies, not just in the act of war, but of those who simply have the audacity to cross our paths.

            Has all this made us immune to the reality of death? The permanence of death? There is that possibility. How often do we cry over the news? Probably not all the often. We might shake our heads and bemoan the loss of life, but do we truly mourn, deep inside, for those unknowns who have left us. Until death becomes personal.

            An elderly woman, full of life, yet living in a residential care facility, dresses every morning as if she is going out for the evening. Neatly pressed dress, hat, white gloves. She goes to the art room to participate in a class. Sits down. Keels over. Just like that. Quiet, peaceful, with dignity intact.

            A man in a skilled nursing facility who can still walk and talk, gets up one morning and slips. As he falls, his head strikes the metal bed. He dies immediately, with his family wondering what happened even as they are spared watching his mind vanish and his body crumble.

            There are those who linger, caught in a never-never-land of oblivion. Their hearts continue to beat, lungs to breathe, organs to process, yet there is no one home. They are force-fed in order to keep them alive. But is it living? Does quality of life count for anything?

            As we age, death becomes more of a reality. We develop conditions. We are hospitalized. We have surgery. We learn again to walk, talk, eat, be human. But we know and understand that we are dying incrementally every day. No matter how much we exercise, eat the right foods, abstain from the vices of drugs and alcohol, our bodies fail us by degrees. We hope that our end is not near, that by taking care of ourselves that we are postponing what is to come.

            But what happens when we are touched by death? Do we cry? Wail? Pound our heads against the wall? Climb into bed and bury ourselves in our covers? Or do we realize that others need us to be strong, to support them as they accompany us through the grieving process?

            We walk through this life with others standing by our sides. Holding our hands. As good citizens we must be there to listen, to hold, to comfort, even when we are hurting inside. After all, isn’t that what we hope for when our time comes?

Crimes of Passion

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            When I was a child, my family was poor. We always had food, clothes and a place to live, so we weren’t destitute. Much of what we did have came from relatives. This included everything from furniture to food.

            I don’t recall ever being extremely hungry, but I was never full. Apply this to not just the physical sense of lacking food, but to the emotional. I missed something that was wholly mine. Yearned for something that had never been owned, worn, felt by someone before coming to me.

            At the time I lacked the words to describe the feeling. There was an emptiness that was never filled. As a consequence, my eyes sought objects that were small, so insignificant that they would not be missed.

            My mom frequented the Five and Dime, a general merchandise store that catered to people like us. My mom loved to roam the aisles, feeling this, holding that, occasionally buying the things she came there for: a spool of thread, buttons, a swath of fabric.

            Perhaps I learned from her that it was okay to pick up and hold things that you weren’t going to buy. Maybe I was taught to slip things in your purse when the owner wasn’t looking. In later years I learned that my mom often left stores with hidden items. If that was true, then I was an observant understudy.

            My sister’s birthday was approaching and on this trip to the Five and Dime my mom needed candles for the cake. In that section there were tiny pink dolls, plastic cribs to match, and paper umbrellas on thin sticks. I wanted them all. One of each size, shape and color.

            Something inside of me must have known that it was not okay to pocket too many items, at least not on one trip. My hand reached for a plastic baby on its own accord. It felt smooth and easy to touch. It weighed nothing. It fit perfectly in my small hand and even better in the pocket of my jacket.

            I wanted more. The crib, the umbrellas. I trembled and sweat broke out on my forehead. I couldn’t talk. When we approached the register I knew I was going to get caught. My eyes looked down. I feared that the owner could see guilt, could see the inside of my pocket. He said nothing.

            On the way home my fingers held that baby, still inside the pocket. At home I buried it in the backyard, hiding the evidence.

            One plastic baby didn’t satisfy the want inside me.

            The next visit to the store I pocketed a box of six crayons. The problem, I realized once home, was that I couldn’t use them without my mm knowing that she had not paid for them. The crayons joined the plastic baby in the backyard.

            By now I was a seasoned thief. I planned my outfit, making sure I had at least one pocket. I knew I had to roam the aisles like my mother did, feeling this, picking up that, examining something else. When mom led us to the trinket aisle I knew what I was going to take: an umbrella. The problem was, which one. I chose the blue. It slid into my pocket just as the other things had done.

            By now I wasn’t afraid of looking at the owner. After all, I had stolen before and not gotten caught. With the umbrella secure, I accompanied my mom to the register, stood complacently while she paid, then walked out. Except something different happened.

            The owner asked my mom to wait, but not until after I was outside. I don’t know what was said, but when my mom stormed outside and grabbed me by the sleeve, I knew I was in trouble. She dug in my pocket and produced the umbrella. With it held aloft, she pulled me back inside the store. She handed over the umbrella which was now broken thanks to her tight grip.

            I was told to apologize. I refused. I had done nothing wrong in my mind. I had seen my mom slip things in her purse over and over. If I had to apologize, then so should she. I didn’t say it, thankfully.

            After much prodding I mumbled an apology. The owner then forbade me from ever entering his store again. I thought his punishment was excessive considering it was only a tiny umbrella.

            My parents decided I need moral guidance so they enrolled me in a Brownie troop that was being formed at the Catholic School I attended. I didn’t know anyone and had no intentions of making friends with them.

            I don’t know how I knew, but I understood that the girls and mothers who ran the troop came from wealthier families. It might have been the newness of the girls’ uniforms versus my faded one from a thrift store. Perhaps it was because the mothers wore necklaces and earrings, something my mother didn’t have. Maybe it was the way they treated me: like an idiot who didn’t understand English.

            It wasn’t on the first meeting, but maybe the third, that the mothers had planned a craft activity. It involved the use of colorful rubber bands. I don’t remember what I made, if I made anything at all. What I do recall in vivid clarity was the desire to own the bag of rubber bands.

            My palms began to sweat. My heart beat wildly. I couldn’t take my eyes off the bag. Whenever a girl took a rubber band from the bag I cringed inside. I wanted that bag so badly that my stomach hurt.

            I had to have it. I had to take it home. But how? How could I sneak it home without being caught?

            The solution came when it was time to clean up. The bag still sat on the table, all alone. It called my name. I moved closer to it. The desire intensified. I checked to see where the others were. The girls were giggling off to the side. The mothers were in a circle, talking. No one was near me. No one was watching.

            The entire bag of rubber bands slid into my school bag. I latched it shut then hurriedly left without saying goodbye.

            My mom was waiting outside. We drove the long way home in silence. At home I took my school bag into my bedroom as I always did. I removed the rubber bands and hid them in my underwear drawer. Moved them to under my mattress. Stuffed them in a shoe. Found a hole in the back of my closet and stuck them in there.

            When my mom finally asked how the Brownie meeting went, I told her it was dumb and I never wanted to go back. That was a lie. I had had fun. The mothers were kind. I felt safe there, at a time when I needed safety. I feared that the girls and mothers knew I had taken the rubber bands. That was the reason I couldn’t return.

            My crime of passion ruined what might have been a good thing.

A Valentine’s Dilemma

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Part Two:

Just as he remembered, there was an old leather trunk in the corner, covered with a layer of dust.  He lovingly rubbed his hand across the top.  He opened the lid, revealing Nightingale’s treasures.

On top was a red velvet shirt with a beaded yoke, a string of yellow flowers attached to a white vine, all hand sown by Nightingale herself.  Next was a tiny pair of beaded moccasins, so small that he couldn’t fit his whole hand inside.  He found a bandolier of china tubes interspersed with blue glass beads and a pair of white buckskin leggings with a fringed tunic.

“This was her weddin’ outfit,” he thought as he held them up to the light. “She sure looked pretty in these.”  He held the tunic to his nose and inhaled, then cradled it to his chest.  For many minutes Grandpa sat on his haunches, rocking with eyes closed, remembering the beautiful girl who stole his heart so many years ago.  “This won’t do,” he chastised himself as he placed the outfit back in the trunk.  He rummaged around some more until he found the item that he had had in mind.  After taking it out, he closed the trunk, locked the door, and went back down the ladder.

About the same time Stan came in, leading Sally by the halter.  “Guess what I saw up on the ridge?”

“A beaver?”

“No.  Guess again,” Stan said as he led Sally into her stall. 

“Little Bear?” Grandpa chuckled at the thought of the creature from lore being spotted at the top of the hill.

“You know better than that,” Stan said. “Give me a real guess.  Something that lives up there, but you seldom see any more.”  Stan pulled off the saddle and the blanket and hung them over a rail.  He picked up a soft cloth and wiped Sally’s damp sides until she glowed.

“You saw a porcupine.”

“That’s it!  How did you guess that?  I haven’t seen one up there since I was a little boy.” Stan brushed Sally, removing the matted hair from her mane and tail.

“Well,” Grandpa drawled, “I was thinking of a porcupine that crossed my path when I was about your age.”

“Another story, Grandpa?”

“Yep.  You keep workin’ and I’ll talk,” he said as he settled onto a three-legged stool just outside the stall.  “Years ago, shortly after I met Nightingale, I wanted to give her something that showed how special she was.  I had little money to spend, so I figured I’d make something.  Now your grandmother always dressed in her traditional clothes.  Somehow it felt right to her.  None of that modern stuff.

“So I rode up on that ridge, just like you did, thinking maybe I’d see a nice piece of wood for carving.  Instead I ran across a dead porcupine.  Looked fresh.  Maybe died of old age, as I didn’t see any wounds anywhere.  Anyway, I got the idea to pull off the quills and make something out of them.  The quills are hollow, you know, so it is easy to lace them together to make a necklace or breastplate.  Plus they can be died different colors by using berries, roots, or mosses. 

“Red was Nightingale’s favorite color, so after getting as many quills as I could, I searched around until I found some nice berries.  I took it all back home, boiled the berries in some hot water, making a nice thick juice.  Then I dropped in about half of the quills.  While they were cooking, I found some rawhide scraps and cut them into very thin strips. 

“Once everything was ready, I prayed to the gods to guide my work.  The Blackfoot believe that the quills have religious powers, so I was extra careful not to offend anyone.  I had some blue glass beads left over from a necklace I made her as a wedding gift, so I used them too.

“Every evening I came out here to the barn and worked while Nightingale took care of the mother.  My fingers were too big and clumsy to make anything real fine, so I concentrated on the larger pieces of quill and the beads with the biggest holes.  It took me nearly two weeks, but when I presented her with a sash for her waist, she smiled so big I thought her cheeks would split.

“So, here it is,” he said as he held it up for Stan to see. “I found it in her chest.”

“Grandpa, that’s beautiful!”

“The colors have faded a bit, but Rose might like it anyway.”

“She’ll love it.  But won’t her father think we’re engaged?”

“Maybe yes to both.  But if you notice, I made a design like antelopes.  Blackfoot warriors place a lot of significance in the antelope.    Because they run fast, the antelope escape capture more times than not.  Curly Bear will remember that and know that this gift isn’t meant to tie Rose to you.”

Stan reverently held the sash up to the light, then ran his fingers along the lines of quills and beads.  “This is perfect.  Rose doesn’t have a sash nearly this nice.”

“Well, let’s go inside.  It’s nigh on to dark.  Soon it will be bedtime.”

Stan closed Sally’s stall door, turned off the light, closed the big barn door, then walked with his grandfather back to the house.  “One question, Grandpa.”

“Sure.”

“If this was Grandmother’s, don’t you want to keep it?”

Grandpa stopped at the top step and turned to face the now dark front lawn. He turned his eyes up to the sky, sighed, and then said, “The materials that went to make that came from the earth.  Yes, it was a special gift.  A way for me to tell my wife that I loved her.  But it holds no power over my memories.  Keeping it in that trunk is of no use to anyone.  If’n you give it to Rose, every time she wears it, Nightingale will smile.  Nope. It’s yours to give.”

Stan laid his right hand on his grandfather’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to say, except thanks.  This will make the best Valentine’s Day gift.  All I need now is a box and red wrapping paper.”

Grandpa nodded. “I just might have some of that upstairs.” With that, he opened the door and led the way inside. “Why don’t you get some studying done while I gather what you need.”

Stan pulled his Government textbook out of his backpack and settled at the wooden desk his grandfather had recently made. The surface was smooth even though it was a bit uneven.

He loved the care that had gone into its construction. In fact, he even knew which tree his grandfather had used. Not too long ago, during a rare windstorm, a walnut tree had blown down. He had helped cut the tree into usable pieces that he had stacked under an overhang on the backside of the barn.

He opened to the chapter on socialism and was just starting to read when his grandfather reappeared, his arms full.

“I found ever’thin’ you need.”

            Stan smiled when he saw the red Christmas paper. Rose would laugh when she saw dancing Santas and skipping reindeer. “That’s perfect. Thanks.”

            “So,” Grandpa said as he got out his pipe. “Happy?”

            Stan nodded. “Once again you solved my dilemma.”

            Grandpa opened the front door and just before he stepped through, he said, “Valentine’s is about love. I’d do anything for you because I love you. You know that, right?”

            “That I do.” Stan moved the paper and ribbon off to the side of the desk. “So what can I get you for Valentine’s?”

            “Every day you gift me with your love.” Grandpa closed the screen door behind him. “That’s all I need.”

A Valentine’s Day Dilemma

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Part One:

            Stan Ellis sat before his computer, furiously searching the Internet for a gift for his girlfriend, Rose.  He wanted to get her something for Valentine’s Day that said he cared about her, but nothing more.  After all, they were both seniors in high school headed for college in the fall.

            “That won’t do,” he thought as he looked at diamond necklaces.  “I don’t have that kind of money, and something like that spells L-O-V-E.”  He checked out watches, rings, hats, and various types clothing, but nothing seemed to fit what Stan thought were in Rose Tailfeather’s taste.

            Grandfather Ellis, looking on from the kitchen as he fixed dinner, smiled.  He remembered going through the same thing when he wanted to give his wife Nightingale a special gift on their anniversary.  He understood how hard it was to find just the right gift.

After putting the casserole in the oven to bake, he stepped into the living room. “Whatcha doing?”

            “Oh!  Grandpa, don’t sneak up on me like that, please.”

            “It’s good to know I can still sneak.  I thought these ol’ bones made enough racket to wake your long-dead uncles.”  Grandpa pulled his pipe from his shirt pocket, stuffed it with tobacco from a hand-tooled pouch hanging from a nearby shelf, tampered it down with his finger, lit it, then inhaled.  As he exhaled, he made perfect clouds of smoke rise toward the ceiling.  “I asked what you were doin’.”

            “Valentine’s Day is coming up and I want to get something special for Rose,” Stan said.

            “Go to Draper’s in town and pick up somethin’ there.  The old man carries a good variety of things to please a woman.” Grandpa settled into his old, worn recliner, put up the foot rest and got himself comfortable.

            After turning off the computer, Stan said, “You don’t understand.  Rose comes from a traditional Blackfoot family.  If I give her something too valuable, then her father will think I’m proposing.  If it’s not something Rose wants, then she will think I don’t care.  I’m stuck.”

            “Is Rose a nice girl?”

            “Of course.  You met her before the Winter Dance.  I brought her over, right?”

            “Is she the one that wore the old-fashioned buckskin dress with blue and white pony beads down the sleeves?”

            “That’s the one.  Rose is proud of her heritage and wears native regalia almost every day.  She’s in my Chemistry and English classes and her grades are always the highest,” Stan said as he fidgeted with his hands.

            “Doesn’t her family live outside of town on Little Creek Ranch?”

            “Yes.”

            “I remember her ol’ man, Curly Bear Tailfeather.  He believes the people’ll rise and take back the land.  He goes to Ghost Dances and parades about like he’s a medicine man. He’s kind of nuts, if’n you ast me,” Grandpa said, inhaling and puffing once more.  “You sure chose the wrong girl, Stan.”

            A look of shock swept over the young man’s face.  “Why do you say that?”

            “Because no matter what you do, you’re in trouble.  Curly Bear believes in all that ritual stuff.  Anything you give Rose is an engagement promise.”

            “That’s my problem, Grandpa.  Rose may come from a traditional family, but she has modern ideas.  She expects a boyfriend to remember her on Valentine’s Day. And not just with a cheap card, either.  She wants something in a box covered with bright red paper.”

            Just then the oven timer rang.  “Go check dinner, Stan, and I’ll think on it for a spell.”

            When Stan checked on the casserole, it wasn’t quite done. While it continued cooking, he put together a tossed green salad, set the table, and poured two tall glasses of ice water.  His grandfather had some diced potatoes in the frying skillet, so Stan turned on the heat, put in a little oil, onion, salt and pepper, and cooked them until the potatoes had a nice brown color and the onion slices were translucent.  After putting the potatoes in a serving bowl and placing them on the table, he pulled out the noodle casserole and centered it on the hot pads his grandfather had spread in the center of the table.

            “Dinner’s ready, Grandpa.  Come on in.”

            “Thanks, Stan.  I was so busy figurin’ I forgot about food.  I think I solved your problem,” he said as he walked into the kitchen and sat at the head of the table.  “Say the blessin’ for us.”

            They bowed their heads as the nuns at St. Matthew’s Episcopal had taught both.  “God, our Creator and Heavenly Father,” Stan intoned.  “Bless our meal and all the people who helped create it.  Watch over us as we go through our days.  We thank you for all the gifts you have given.  Amen.”

            “Amen,” echoed his grandfather.  “Pass the potatoes.  Got to eat ‘em afore they get cold.”

            As Stan ate he remembered Grandma Nightingale’s rules about chewing slowly and eating quietly in reverence to the animals and plants that gave their lives in order to sustain the people.  When he was finished, Stan said, “So, what idea did you get?”

            “Well, if you give Rose jewelry from a store, she might like it, but her father won’t.  He hates anything store bought and thinks old man Draper cheats the people.”

            “That’s what I was thinking.  Plus Rose might read engagement into it, and I don’t want that to happen.  We’re still too young.”

            “You can’t give her flowers, as Curly Bear’s anger would rise at destroying plants for no purpose.  That leaves clothing or food,” Grandpa said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his full belly.

Stan got up, picked up the dirty dishes and carried them over to the counter.  He rinsed them off and then placed them in the dishwasher.  The leftover casserole went into a refrigerator container.  He dampened a paper towel and washed off the table, careful not to disturb his grandfather.

“I’ve got to take Sally out for a ride before it gets too dark,” Stan said.  “Want to walk out to the stable with me?”

“Sure,” Grandpa said.  “What I was thinkin’ was that what you could give Rose is out there anyway.”

Together they walked across the lush front lawn to the barn.  Stan pushed open the large door while his grandfather turned on the lights. 

Stan looked around and saw only hay, harnesses, bridles and horseshoes. “What’s out here that I could give Rose?”

“Nightingale’s trunk is up in the rafters.  If I recall correctly, there’s something in there that would make Rose smile and keep her father happy as well.  You go out for a ride while I climb up and get it.”

“Sure, Grandpa.  I’ll be back in an hour.” Stan saddled Sally and headed out toward the distant hills.

After his grandson left, Grandpa climbed up the ladder to the rafters.  He walked to the far side where there was a locked door.  Pulling out a ring of keys, he found a small, old-fashioned one that fit the hasp lock.  Once the door creaked open, he allowed his eyes a moment to adjust before stepping into the dark storage area. 

Just as he remembered, there was an old leather trunk in the corner, covered with a layer of dust.  He lovingly rubbed his hand across the top.  He opened the lid, revealing Nightingale’s treasures.

Georgia Peach

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Georgia, a peachy little girl

One fine day wandered far from her home.

With mammoth twist and a single twirl,

Lost the dirt path on which she did roam.

 

No worries, though, for this saucy child

Did spot a cottage deep in the wood.

The sun shone down on roses gone wild,

Made Georgia forget to be good.

 

She knocked upon the ancient door,

Then flounced her golden, curly hair:

Listened for footsteps soft on the floor,

Thought of whom might live in tiny lair.

 

When no one came to see her inside,

She turned the small knob with trembling hand,

Opened the door wearing a smile wide.

Alas, no one there to take a stand.

 

Georgia stepped into kitchen small,

Noticed three platters brimming full,

And glasses barely two fingers tall,

In which was liquid brown and dull.

 

She took a taste from the biggest one.

Georgia gagged: fought to keep it down.

“This stuff stinks,” she burbled. “I am done.”

Her face now covered with ugly frown.

 

Next she spied the family’s stuffed chairs

Crimson and gold, with tassels of blue.

Nestled under the circular stairs.

Georgia sat, fell.  “This was not new!”

 

With achy bones, she climbed the first step,

Heard nary a sound from man nor beast.

Up she went; where the family slept.

Miniature beds spaced most to least.

 

Exhausted from her explorations,

Georgia moved them all together.

Soon she forgot all aspirations

And dreamt of sunny, pleasant weather.

 

While adrift on misty isle of cloud,

Georgia snored and tossed all about.

She didn’t hear voices clear and loud.

“Someone’s here,” said Dad, “there is no doubt.”

 

The family of three, with startled eyes,

Noticed empty glass and broken chair.

“Who’s in the house?” said the mother wise.

“I’ll find out,” Father said.  “I’ll take great care.”

 

Father first, Mother and then the Son

Crept up the stairs and looked all around.

“There she is,” said Father. “That’s the one!”

“She must have thought she wouldn’t be found.”

 

“Let the child sleep,” said Mother dear.

“She seems to be sweet and innocent.”

“But Mom,” said young son, “I do but fear

my bed’s broke.  For this she must repent.”

 

Father smiled, “She’s but a girl, no harm done.”

“Now come, let’s go and let her dream on.”

After they ate, outside they did run

And played the silly game, Name That Pun.

 

Georgia awoke, stretched, and then stood,

Fluffed her gold hair and straightened her dress.

Down she walked, and into the big wood.

Thought, I’ll remember this fine address.

 

Found the dirt path on which she did roam.

With a single twist and mammoth twirl,

She luckily found her way home.

Georgia, a peachy little girl.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Night Terrors

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            The large dun horse runs full tilt down a rock-strewn hill, its hooves sliding, slipping, searching for purchase which it finds, then loses then finds again as it runs harder, faster, its eyes huge, lather forming on its withers, its sides and foam dripping from its mouth, its tongue dangling to one side as its sides heave and heave. The headlong descent to the swiftly moving river below doesn’t slow its run, doesn’t ease its fears but rather amplifies them for the roar is deafening as the current bangs against tree limbs hanging so low their branches dip into the melee.

            She tries to stop, but her forward momentum is so strong, so impulsive, so rushed that her hooves slide through the muddy banks and into the river she jumps with a mighty splash. The water is too deep and she flails, legs trying valiantly to swim, to coordinate, to come up with a rhythm that will keep her afloat, but its all in vain as she is swept downriver along with branches and other debris.

            Her head is barely above water and her breathing is ragged but still she fights, her hooves hoping to touch bottom despite knowing that they will not, they cannot for the river is deep and the current keeps sucking her under. Downriver she goes, crashing against huge boulders that suck her breath away, that hurt her legs, her ribs, her neck.

            Kicking and kicking she never gives us, never succumbs to despair that would pull her under even when her mighty head dips below the surface and all she sees is a muddy swirl. Sides heaving she fights the fight of her life, not giving in for a minute, a second.

            In front of her, all around her a roar begins. Quiet at first if a roar could be called quiet but as she fights, it intensifies as she nears a bend in the river, a turn she hopes will allow her weary legs to strike mud, sand, gravel anything.

            No more boulders ahead. She has hope. Her spirits life, until she notices that the roar is so loud that she hears no bird, no insect, no bubble or quiet gurgle. Roar and more roar. Growing louder as the current pulls her forward toward an end. A drop-off. A precipice inot which she knows she will fall.

            And so she gives up. Her exhausted legs stop churning. Her head slumps. Her heart stills. She is prepared to die and million deaths for she knows what comes next. She’s seen if before. Heard it before. Lost companions before. But with one last burst of energy she screams signaling her acceptance of death as she plunges over the edge.

            Down and down she falls carried by the torrent, deep into the mist, the swirl, tossed over and under until she does not know which way is up or down or sideways. So deep that there is no sun, no light, no joy until there is peace. She quits fighting knowing that her life is no more.

            A sudden overwhelming peace fills her. A lightness of spirit. She has come to her afterlife. She will run with her ancestors. Romp across stubbly fields in joyous rapture.

            Until she opens her massive eyes and realizes the she is being carried along with a mild current, heading toward a sandy shore. She fights just enough to get her head out of the water, just enough to be able to breathe, to see a blue sky. To feel the sun on her shoulders, to hear birds singing softly overhead. In and out she breathes. In and out.

            With effort she struggles to her feet and stands for fear of collapse. She raises her weary head and sees grasses just a few steps ahead. She knows she must eat. Must restore energy lost and so she makes her way to the first patch and nibbles gingerly as if it might not be real. Nibbles more and more as she moves away from the river.

            Natural instincts take over and she grazes calmly, naturally as she’s done all her life. As her ancestors have done. Ripping out one nourishing morsel after another as the roar of the terrifying falls slowly recedes into the distance.

            Satisfied, she shakes her head removing the last of the water and she neighs calling for her kind. Nothing at first so she heads toward a sand dune, a tiny hill and makes her way to the top being careful, ever so careful where each hoof goes.

            At the crest a beam of light falls across her back and it warms her inside and out. With a sigh she plods forward, one step after another. She nibbles the choicest bits now that her hunger is satisfied. She neighs again and waits for something. She knows what it is, but will an answering call come?

            Far to the west she hears a faint call. With the sun going with her she heads toward what she hopes will be a welcome. Serenity fills her for she has survived. The tragedy will soon move to the recesses of her mind, but will never be forgotten. Not entirely. Not for many years.