GOOD BYE, HARRY

Here we are on the cusp of the final chapters of the Harry Potter Series. It has been ten, long years of dreaded, nail-biting agony as Rowling fed us a little bit of Harry’s eccentric adolescent years only pieces at a time. We devoured her books like starving hound dogs. I, among millions, was there at midnight, too anxious to wait another second to scoop up the next set of events into my arms. I always took two days off from work every time a Harry Potter Book was released allotting uninterrupted time just to read the newest of poor Harry’s life. 24 hours of endless reading ensued without sleep. Since Book 1, I have learned to cook, dress, eat, and change a diaper all while reading. I put Harry Potter down for very little. I always read through the books so fast that I had to re-read each book immediately upon finishing it because the adrenaline caused me to remember nothing of what I had just read. After speeding through the blur of words, I would near the final pages of each book just to slow my reading – dreading to finish the book. Finishing a Harry Potter book meant facing another two years of torturous wait. We entered the world of dragons and wizards, mer-people, and ghosts with Harry. Discovered his dark past with him. We cried for Harry, laughed with him, screamed repeatedly at "that Umbridge Woman". Laughed more and cried as our hearts broke every time we watched Harry loose one more person close to him. We grew to hate his enemies, love his friends, and felt true sympathy for a poor, lonely, orphaned boy who had to grow up abused and starved. Rowling has forced us to love her Harry – and love him we do. I often think that there is little Rowling won’t do to Harry. It wouldn’t surprise me if she does kill him off at the close of Book 7. Half of me is expecting her to. Half of me is prepared. I never wanted Book 6 to end. The end of Book 6 meant that Book 7 was next and I didn’t want the end to come. I often wonder what it will be like when Book 7 is read and done; a final close to the countless chapters of Harry’s life. No more agonizing, strenuous, anticipation for the next installment. Just a matter of closing this book – the book – finally. I will miss Harry, as I’m sure everyone who knew him will. True, I can revisit him any time I want. But when it comes to book 7, it will be like watching a best friend leave for college. "I’ll see you again," you call out. But a deep, dark, sinking feeling beneath the pit of your heart says, "No, you won’t". Sure you can re-read the books. As if that ever stopped any of us. But Harry has finally grown up and will be leaving the Dursleys for the last time. As excited as he will be, we will feel a sense of sorrow. I will cry. I know I will. We will be beside him once more as he seeks out Voldemort one last time and this time Voldemort will die or Harry will. And then, Harry will be gone. Off to some wizard college or to work in the Ministry Of Magic perhaps. Maybe even to work in Hogwarts itself as the Defense Against The Dark Arts teacher (God knows, he is qualified for the job). Whichever road Harry will venture down next, assuming it is not he who dies in Book 7, one thing is certain, we will not follow him. We will not go. Instead, we will read that final sentence of the final chapter of the final book and we will, unwillingly, say goodbye to Harry Potter. Then we will close Book 7 . . . and read it one more time.

MEMOIRS

She looked up from the neglected grape vines tangled on the ground, to return the pining stare of a boy buried in the eyes of the man now before her. There he stood as real as the smell from the summer’s leaves. Too long she had dreamed of this, when he would stand at her side once more. She had spent the long winter realizing she had loved him all this time, which had passed too quickly. Over the years, they each had surrendered to their own loveless passions, broke several hearts, rediscovered new lovers, and broke countless more hearts. Together, they suffered through Spanish classes and finals exams and then, suddenly, graduation. The following summer had come and gone like every summer before. It was the Autumn that had changed. September had come without him. There were no more classes to bring them together like every September before. It was then that she felt the first pinch of suffering. An overwhelming lust to see his eyes once more, devoured her. A deep longing seeded itself in her breast and throughout that long, bitter winter she ached to hear his voice again. By the first dew of spring, her lust ran deep with pain as thoughts of him consumed her. She would never forget the day a rusty old Ford pulled up the drive way, kicking up a sea of dust behind it. Her heart was in her throat as the Ford drew nearer. She knew it was him. The truck stopped and out stepped a man she had never seen before, enveloped around the eyes of a boy she had never forgotten. She ran to the truck and, before she realized what she had done, she threw her arms around his neck, her legs she wrapped around his waist. That June, they relived every moment lost to the winter. They spent hours digging in the black soil and planting rose-less bushes in the bed. They had unearthed the vines her uncle had planted there decades ago. As they unearthed the forgotten vines, a storm moved in. The clouds were like gods casting a shadow on the earth. The urge was irresistible. Both laid down their trowels and stood, feet apart, facing the south to welcome the winds. Together, they stood united while the winds encircled them. They spent the remaining summer, making love beneath the maple trees. As quickly as a perfect dream vanishes with consciousness, he vanished that September for college. She was left with a fierce emptiness and his promise that he would return. Years passed and she waited. She waited while burying herself in the eyes of another and succumbing to a new love. She waited while her thoughts carried her back to that summer, while she stood, in white, before a priest and committed her life, love, and body to a man she would forever love. It wasn’t long before she awoke to the hungry cries of a newborn girl, all the while waiting for her summer love. The nightly feedings became sleepless nights as her thoughts wandered back to a lover lost. She waited and soon she was making cupcakes for her daughter’s school parties. With her two-year-old son wrapped around her leg, her mind was forever on rose-less thorns and thunderstorms. The loved fabric kittens and stuffed bears were soon forgotten for boys and dresses. That night she sat at the kitchen table awaiting her daughter’s return from her first dance. The snores of her husband and son were drowned out by the rains that pelted the windows and the lamenting winds. She closed her eyes and saw a lover not forgotten. The sound of a car drove up and a door slammed shut. She had fallen asleep again while waiting. This must have been the hundredth dance she had stayed up for waiting. Her sixteen-year-old daughter walked in. She had been crying and her hair was no longer twisted and curled into the coil she had styled for the prom. As her daughter cried on her shoulder about boys and their endless insensitivities, she thought back to a boy she once loved beneath a maple tree. There, she sat with Pomp and Circumstance leading her daughter down the aisle in a black gown. After the class had seated, a man stood at the pulpit and started a droning speech about beginnings and endings, accomplishments and failures. With the early summer air drifting into the gymnasium, her thoughts were forced back to the memories of summer maple trees. She had ordered the flowers and hired the caterer to help her daughter cope with the added stress. Everything was in place. She had already lit the candle and awaited her daughter’s cue as the first chords of The Wedding March began. Everyone rose as the March ascended in modulation and her daughter entered the auditorium. Her husband’s arm was linked with their daughter’s as tears filled her eyes. She was reminded of another promise that day. She released a sigh . . . and waited. Not a year later, she looked down into the clear eyes of her daughter’s baby girl. She kissed the head of the sleeping babe nestled in her daughter’s arms, then settled into the chair by the bed. Her husband kissed their daughter’s head as she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift away in memory. Long ago and once, she dreamed of sharing this day with a love she would not soon forget. She watched as her son now walked down the aisle in his black gown. He had been accepted into the ROTC program and would be leaving in a few weeks. Once more, an old man no one really knew, stood up to talk about beginnings and endings, accomplishments and failures. Once more, she closed her eyes as her thoughts filled with memories of summer maple trees. Tears filled her eyes as she kissed her son on the cheek. Her husband’s arms wrapped around her as they watched their son board the plane to Iraq. Her daughter and son-in-law stood by as they all waved, their little granddaughter sleeping peacefully in the stroller. Tears filled their eyes once again as the soldier handed her a folded American flag. Her heart ached with its new pain, as she looked for comfort from her husband who shared the same tears. With her head laying on her husband’s shoulder and her hand clenched in his, her mind was filled with a face who she had always remembered for strength. The years passed quickly now. She looked out into the horizon where the ocean met the sky. The storm moved in and filled the horizon with storm clouds amid the Hawaiian sunset. She was lost in thought of a summer storm long ago. Suddenly, a firm hand fell onto her shoulders and awakened her from drifting thoughts. Her husband lightly kissed the nape of her neck, forcing her to grin. For fifty years she had loved this man. For fifty years she had shared her life, her body, and bed with this man. Little had she known that in less than a year she would be dressed in black once more, her eyes filled with tears. She clutched the golden circle tightly in her hand. She watched as her husband was lowered into the earth. Thoughts of the years flooded her mind. Even then, through all the hurt, a face shone bright and clear. She sighed through her tears and lifted her eyes to the cloudless sky as she thought to herself, "I love him still. I do. I’m glad I never had to bury him. That’s one death I couldn’t live through." The winter was growing near once more. Her thoughts often drifted to summer storms and rose-less thorns, tangled vines and maple trees. She waited by the phone often, ever hoping. She felt the light inside her fade as she remembered her body next to his under the summer maple trees. It was time to go now. She stood from her rocking chair and slowly walked up the stairs. She spent many hours recalling aged memories of summers gone and sleepless nights, broken hearts and vows now spent. A son she should have had. The spouse she always had. The love she never had. The years had passed too quickly. After turning out the light she laid upon her bed. She closed her eyes and quickly fell asleep. She never forgot the day a rusty old Ford pulled up the drive way, and kicked up a sea of dust behind it.

FINDING DANCE

I began piano lessons when I was four years old. I hated practicing. Practicing meant that I was readying myself for a recital. For a grand performance where I would show my hard earned accomplishments and labored efforts to an audience of music lovers. But there was no audience. There was no recital or concert. There wasn’t even a music lover. Just myself, week after week at the piano. After procrastinating the week away, I would sit down to the keyboard with piano lessons a couple hours away. I would hammer out a few exercises before attending the lesson where my teacher would scold me. "You didn’t practice this week. Did you?" I never bothered denying it. My fingers had betrayed me. After the scolding, I was given the assignment to repeat and another week of procrastination followed. Months passed like this into years and I continued my practiced procrastination. I never could help but wonder, "For what am I doing this?" After two years, I lost all interest in the piano, for I harbored another desire. My mother looked befuddled when I told her at six, I didn’t want to play anymore. She didn’t protest, but simply told my teacher I had lost interest in the pianoforte. It was behind closed doors that I then began to indulge in my new lover. I called him Dance. It was in Dance that I wanted to express myself and – immediately following the end of my piano lessons – I began begging my parents for ballet lessons. The church condemned dancing and my parents agreed. I was kept from my lover and soon began my liaison with Dance. Behind locked doors, I danced. I escaped into the forest behind the house and once I was out of sight, I danced. I snuck out at night, where I danced free from watchful eyes. Underneath the merciful moon and in his light, I danced. When the skies opened and the rains washed the earth, I ran into the forest and danced. My pleas never ceased, nor did my parent’s stand against my passion. The years passed quickly and I had grown accustomed to the moonlight dances. The gods smiled on me when they brought to me, my best friend who studied ballet. During sleep overs I would slip on her toe shoes. I slid my foot into the wooden toes wrapped in soft pink satin and despite the pain caused by pinched toes crammed into the wooden toes, I longed for that shoe of satin and ribbon enveloping my tiny foot. How I ached to dance in the sun. How I wanted nothing more. Forbidden from Dance, I embraced his brother, Music, and decided to take up the piano again. Now twelve, I returned to the loathsome practicing once more. At that time, I saw Dance in all I did. It was at this time, one afternoon, while my fingers flew across the ivory, that I looked upon my limber fingers and saw Dance there before me. A graceful, complicated dance. Instantly, the hammering of keys and the drone sounds of the music melted away to my fingers which danced effortlessly across the keys to the music I played. The C’s and A’s no longer were notes, but choreographed markings for my fingers to follow. The sounds of chords, triads, and scales became grand jetes, grand plies, and round de jambs. The Arpeggio transformed into the Arabesque. Before me, I saw a dance. An excitement overwhelmed me and my fingers fired on. I took on The Tarantella where my fingers flew with the allegretto. I danced through my fingers to Adagios and Andantes. Finally, there, was I permitted to dance. For the next several years, I would dance like this. My fingers would do what my feet were forbidden. Through my fingers, my dreams were lived. The moment I moved out of my parent’s home, I sought out a studio and immediately realized my life-long dream. I was dancing! After years of pleading and secrets, after years of dancing on the ivories, I was free to dance on my toes. I never was too tired to dance. After working eight hours, I would come home and dance for two. After a two hour ballet lesson, I would come home and dance for three. Through a full time job, I danced. Through finding my husband, I danced. I danced while carrying our daughter, until I could dance no more. As quickly as it had come, my Dance was taken away as motherhood forced its priorities. Dance had fallen to the way side and, once more, I began to pine. But this time, there was no pianoforte. Through a year of early motherhood, surgeries, and a second pregnancy, Dance was forgotten. I felt him drifting away until the likelihood of him returning would never come again. The demands of motherhood pressed hard on me as I carried the burden of a new husband and two toddlers. I felt the weight of the diapers, the inaudible cries, and sleepless nights tearing me down. If Dance saw me then, he would not have known me. I was tattered and worn. The luster from my hair was gone. My eyes were blackened and deep from lack of sleep. My feet were no longer blistered with toe shoes and pirouettes. My hands now smelled of Johnson and Johnson and Desitin. It was one night – I had nearly forgotten the life before – when I was compelled to remember the faint smell of wet trees and damp earth when I would dance in the rain. I had recalled the moon light as I stretched my arms and felt my body pull towards my dance. Terrified that one day, I would forget the smell of rain while I danced, I sat down to my computer. I heard the baby stir. Oh, not now. Please. I have to remember one last time, before I forever forget. I pulled up my word perfect and placed my fingers upon the keyboard. My memory took me away. my fingers fired away across the letters, the rhythmic clicking filled my ears. But it was the old grace in my fingers that I at once recognized. I looked down at my hands and there was Dance before me. An excitement overwhelmed me and my fingers flew on. I took on the essays and stories, the articles, novels, and e-mails I had to write. Before me, through writing, was Dance. The tears blinded my eyes as my old lover carried my fingers across the keys as I danced like never before. As my fingers flew with the Dance I had longed for, a new passion stirred in my breast. It wasn’t the dance I had pined for. It was the need to express.

LEVIATHANS

I know now why I hate you! You remind me of the very monster I try so desperately to escape! I have tried everything to escape him for fear that I will cave if ever I meet him. I don’t want the monster here. For me, that instinct is nothing more than a monster in my eyes. It haunts me everywhere I go and I can’t escape him! He’s in my sleep, forever brooding in the shadows, ready to snatch me the moment my guard is down. There was a feeling, I wish, too often, I could forget. A horrible dark feeling that made me feel ashamed of what I am. I haven’t felt it in years. At least since I was 17. This feeling started in the pit of my stomach then crawled and slithered until my breasts burned with embarrassment. Eventually ending in my groin. It would last for hours, and all I was able to do was curl up in a ball and wait it out. It was bigger than me. It was stronger than me. And nothing I did seemed to rid of it. The best guard against it, was to avoid it at all costs. Finally, at 17, the monster stopped and time passed so that I hadn’t seen him in weeks. Then months passed before I realized the monster hadn’t been to see me. I realized then, that he was gone. Nearly forgotten, I reach into the bowels of my memory to recall the monster that no longer lurks in the darkness. 27 now, I am able to put a name to that monster. SHAME. Shame for being a woman. For being a female. Shame for feeling lust. When that shame took me over, I felt I was standing in front of every male in the world, naked, paralyzed, frozen to the floor. And there, I was ridiculed and jeered at. My breasts crept with a shame that made me hate having them, for that time that the monster slithered over my body. It was then, that I became a prude. It was then that I adopted conservative clothing, conservative ways, and propriety. I found, the closer to propriety I kept, the farther from the monster I became. Now, it has been ten years. I no longer am haunted by my shame. But the slightest reminder of what I once faced, plunges me into the strongest fear. Suddenly, I am faced with the shame, embarrassment, and guilt haunting me once more. I close off my senses. I’ll change the channel, turn off the movie, or cover my ears and shut my eyes. I’ll desperately close out all reminders that could possibly awaken the sleeping leviathan in the nearby shadows. My only comfort is with my husband and the loyalties that lay there. And yet, I watch, ever fearful of the leviathan that may once more awake to haunt me.

WAITING OUT ROMANCE

I spent a lot of time lately "tooting my own horn" so to speak. I sure had a lot of road behind me despite being unable to remember any of the places I had been. I just knew that I had been. Now, I had exhausted my possibilities and felt my life going nowhere. My kids were all here. The home I was in would be my home for a while still, and I had been married and settled a long time now. In truth, I may have been settled too long. I still loved him, there’s no doubt of that, it was simply the lack of a romantic life was beginning to eat away at the parts of me that didn’t doubt our relationship. The bigger problem was that it was demeaning to tell my husband that I needed romance or even wanted it. Romance was something that existed only in movies. In real life, people don’t get swept off their feet. Men don’t send flowers out of the blue or show up at work just to take her out. In real life, there is no element of surprise. There is only the monotony of expectations, schedules, and a lack of spontaneity. It hadn’t bothered me before. This was something that had begun eating away at me when I noticed the complete lack of romance. I was a living breathing woman who favored surprises, special things, and impulsive gifts. My husband, was a man who didn’t think I needed those things anymore. We had retired to a couple who bought things when they wanted them or you just didn’t get anything. I was feeling forgotten and grossly underappreciated. Mostly, I was just beginning to think that this is as good as it gets and this was unbearable. I felt a part of me die. As if someone came up to me and announced that dreams are for children! Wake up! Romance is something that you dream about when you’re too young to know that it doesn’t exist. Despite whatever I had convinced myself, I couldn’t help wondering, wasn’t he romantic once in our lives? What happened? Romance is the best way to say to the woman you love, "I love you. I appreciate you. You are special." That is what romance was. That is why I needed it. I felt like it had been four years since I had anyone tell me "that I was special. You are loved." But it wasn’t just said. It was shown. And I needed that. I needed to be reminded that I wasn’t just a wife anymore. I was something a little more than that. The hard part wasn’t coming to realize this, it was convincing a man that this was important to me. As important as our marriage vows. As important as our children. I needed to feel special and a minute hug wasn’t going to cut it. I needed surprise. Spontaneity. Something I didn’t expect. Something I couldn’t see coming. I needed to feel like I was still the only dog in his kennel.

STRAWS AND CAMELS

Sophie walked down the hall. Her hands shook from the anger that swelled in her chest as her brother shouted down the hall at her, "No one wants you here! If you weren’t so stupid you could figure that out!" She turned in silence back to her room as she remembered her reasons for rarely leaving her room. She came to her door and placed her hand on the knob. "You think you’re so much better than us. You can’t come out of your room for a minute without running back to hibernate!" He began throwing chunks of the carrot he was eating at her. Sophie turned the knob and pushed open the door as she sucked in her cheeks. She closed her eyes as she closed out the malicious threats. "I’m going to kill you!" While she took in a deep breathe - a habit she had developed while resisting the urge to retaliate - she closed the door behind her and turned the lock. Silence. Sophie turned her back to the door then leaned against it as she slowly exhaled the soothing breathe taken in earlier, relishing the moment of peace. This had been how she and her brother had lived for more than six years. Sophie wasn’t sure when it started. Only that when she stepped out of her room, her brother attacked her with unprovoked, vicious comments. Her parents ignored it, believing that she had somehow caused him to lash out at her. They couldn’t believe that he would verbally come after her like he did without some reasonable cause. Sophie often wondered how several mute trips to the refrigerator for a snack or the bathroom for a break could be cause enough to instigate her brother’s verbal attacks. She exhaled the last of her breathe and opened her eyes. Then her eyes widened. Her mouth fell open and her heart pounded like timpani. Her bed was gone. Her dresser was gone. Her closet, missing. The whole room had gone! In its place, where once her pink walls had been, was a fine alabaster stone spread out farther than any room in the house had stretched. The pink carpet was gone and there, in its stead, was a smooth, marble floor. From the high, dome ceiling, a single stream of cool water fell quietly into an inset pool surrounded by white cashmere and silk pillows. Sophie stepped away from the door and her fingers brushed something cold. She looked down to her left and saw a black onyx statue of Bast, the cat goddess of the Egyptians, as a domesticated cat sitting gracefully by the door. An identical statue stood to her right. With her heart still racing, Sophie took her eyes from the statues and stepped away from the door. She lifted her gaze and looked past the fountain and pool to see an archway across the room with large Corinthian pillars on either side of the arch. A gossamer curtain that hung from the arch, blew delicately in a cool breeze. Her chest ached from her pounding heart and her hands shook with awe at the sight before her. Sophie brushed aside the curtain and stepped onto the circular balcony, which clung to the side of a climbing stone tower. Before her stretched a series of mountains, red from the setting sun. Her mouth now hung open as she looked down from the mountains towards the large lush forest of pine that began at the base of the mountains. From there her eyes followed the trees down into a magnificent pool of water. It was then that Sophie noticed a roaring thunder from the ripples in the black pool. To the right, Sophie could see rushing a water fall, which plummeted thirty feet down into the black water. Her eyes peered over the balcony and into pool below. From there she could easily dive into the pool if she wanted. The falling water whipped the wind through her hair. Her pulse continued to drum as she stared down into the pool below. She closed her eyes, stretched out her arms and inhaled the perfect air of the wind and water. Suddenly, a sharp pain jolted her as she fell to the floor. She opened her eyes and looked down at the pink carpet and drops of blood that fell from her lip. The marble was gone, the water was gone, and there stood her brother with his fists clenched. She looked up at him before he slammed his fist down into her face once more. She felt the pain pulse through her temple as she made an attempt to stand. After she planted her feet firmly beneath her she felt his fingers grip her hair. Her face exploded with a different pain as her brother slammed it into the pink walls again and again until the pain in her head became numb and Sophie could think of nothing. Her mind emptied as she fell to the ground, unable to feel the pain in her head. She stood and her eyes caught sight of the scissors laying on her dresser. Without a thought she took two steps to the dresser, lifted the scissors, and lashed in the air. She didn’t see where she slashed. She didn’t think of anything. A feeling had erupted inside her. Not anger or hate. But simply instinct. Instinct to live and to protect herself. Once she realized he wasn’t coming after her again, she lowered the scissors and looked at the door. She could see that he had broken the knob to get into her room. Her eyes fell to where her brother lay, unmoving. She could see a thick, black pool forming into her carpet. Her hands no longer shook. Her heart was no longer racing. She stared quietly and calmly at her brother’s body. She closed her eyes while she took in a deep breathe. "Never again," Sophie whispered.

FINDING FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES

I am an ailurophile. More commonly known as a cat lover. Like so many people before me, I have discovered the joys of owning a cat . . . or, in my case, four. But, as a cat lover - or an ailurophile - they are more to me than "my pets". To me, they are my children, my "kiddies", or my friends. They are as much a part of my family as my husband or my children. Only, I’ve had them around longer and they have never made me cry. I work with dog lovers or, wives of dog lovers. They are in the position that the dog came with the spouse. The same situation applies to my husband. I came with four cats. Hearing the stories of the convenience of the dog and the position they hold, they view my cats as pets. A word I would never dream of using in front of my cats. No, they are not pets. Mindless bodies that conveniently decorate my home. My cats are not tropical fish or a couple of parakeets. No, they are living, thinking, problem solving beings with very much a mind of their own. I’ve watched my cats attempt to turn door knobs to leave a room. They do not lack the know how. Only the impossable thumb that natural selection saw fit to bestow upon the human race. I’ve watched as my cats trot delicately over to me as I cry over broken hearts, stress, and parental problems. My cats know when I am distraught and seek to aid me . . . to comfort me. While showering one day shortly after bringing my newborn Emily home from the hospital, my cats came running into the bathroom yowling at me. I turned off the water knowing they were trying to tell me something. My sleeping newborn had awakened from her nap and was crying. They knew I was a mommy and that my kitten needed me. They knew I needed to go to her. They sleep in my arms every night. They greet me when I come home from work. They have snuggled me while I cry. They have willingly given to me their companionship, their support, comfort, and their friendship. When I hurt, they comfort. When I’m lonely, the accompany, while I sleep, they purr. Despite the language difference, there is no language barrier. We have found our own means of communication. My smiles reply to her purr. My tears are a signal for her to come and lick my face. They only talk when they want food or affection. In the case of my Seal, it’s food. My Rolo, both. My Peach and Tribble. Affection. Rule of thumb, let sleeping Peaches lie. Personal business on the floor says, "There are too many cats in this house. Clean my cat box. Or change my cat litter."

THE BIRTH OF A WRITER

Her abdomen hardened as the bottom fell out from her stomach. This hadn’t been the first time he had come home without a job. Nor was it the second. In truth, this had to have been the eighth time in two years he had come home to tell his wife that he had been let go.Her knees began to tremble as her strength left her. She collapsed into the chair behind her as tears swelled in her eyes. Her body shook with fear. She knew the routine. She knew what would come next. The next four weeks would be dedicated to his job hunting while she worked endless hours at her own job. Every penny would be sucked into bills already months behind and ruthless, bitter fighting would ensue between her and her loving husband.She never once blamed him. It wasn’t his fault, after all. She knew he was a good guy and intelligent. She truly believed the fates had decided to target him."We’ll be fine," Her husband began his reassurance speech. He had this speech down pat from experience. "We’ve been worse off before. We just need to watch our spending and we’ll be okay. Monday I’ll go out and look for more work."His words were no longer filled her with the reassurance she needed. Whatever he did find, things would be difficult and with Christmas just around the corner.She was silent for the remainder of the day. Her three-year-old daughter noticed her stiff silence and asked repeatedly if mommy was okay. She attempted a weak grin and whispered, "I’m okay" each time the toddler inquired as she pushed methodically through the house chores. "She’s three." She thought. "Never should she know of these problems."That night she lay in bed, her husband snoring rhythmically beside her. She hadn’t been able to eat anything all day and had spent the day hiding her tear-stained cheeks from her husband. Her body, which had been numbed with fear since the despairing news, lay rigid and unnaturally stiff between the sheets. A chill filled her lungs with every breath.She listened to the mechanical ticking of the clock in her room. She wasn’t tired, but had laid down in bed hours ago hoping to use sleep to escape the pain. She laid there for a few more minutes, her mind racing. What could she do?She sat up. What could she do?She threw the covers back and snatched up the robe laying on the foot of her bed. She knew what she could do. It was time for her to do what she had to do.She slowly opened the creaking door while holding her breath in fear of waking her husband. She entered the living room and closed the door behind her then walked to the computer sleeping on the desk opposite where she stood. After walking to the computer, she tapped the mouse and sighed."Wake up," she said to the slumbering monitor. After getting out of bed, she hadn’t been sure, but now, sitting down to the desk, she knew she could do it."It’s time we get to work," She told the machine before her.She pulled up her typing program and her fingers flew away with her imagination. But this time, it wasn’t with the love for self-expression. Nor was it for the joys of imaginative play left over from her youth. This time, it was for the need to live. To survive and feed her children. And if all she had to sell were the ideas she wrote, she would."I only hope they’re good enough," She thought as her fingers punched away at the letters. "We have nothing else."

COMING HOME

She was tired. The pier stretched out into the sea. For a moment she stood taking in the free air that wisped around her. It was the wind that called to her. That sprayed the warm water onto her face. She didn’t care. That was what she had come back for, after all.Elizabeth hadn’t told anyone where she was going or that she even was going. She hadn’t known herself. She suddenly found herself riding. Riding straight on and not bothering to look back. She knew what was there and what she was leaving and she didn’t want to be bothered by it any more. What she was looking for she had finally turned herself towards and rode on. She hadn’t stopped, not even to sleep. Elizabeth wasn’t going to allow anything as trifle as sleep stop her now that she had decided to go back.That morning, the sea had greeted her long before the sun rose. Elizabeth unmounted the horse and sat herself in the sand. Now all she had to do was wait. It would be there and all she had to do was wait. Spreading herself across the cooled sand, Elizabeth allowed sleep to take her, knowing the sea would keep her safe.The first hint of morning had begun to stir as Elizabeth awoke. She felt rested despite her lack of sleep. Excitement swelled inside of her once she realized that the sea before her wasn’t a dream. The sun would come soon and then she could begin the second part of her journey.Elizabeth stared hard into the east. The sun would rise and she would know. Tears stun her eyes. Would she still be allowed back? Would everything be as she had left it? She was certain it would. She shook her head, closed her eyes, and took in the fresh sea air. With a cleared head she continued her long stare out into the endless horizon.Any moment now and Elizabeth would be home again.

THE NEW VICTORIAN AGE

I thoroughly detest Jane Austen and I really don’t like Charles Dickens. I feel I must explain myself on this. I hate romantic love novels. It makes my stomach churn, truly. I couldn’t stand Sweet Home Alabama or Sleepless In Seattle. I must be the only woman alive who hates that movie. I did enjoy You’ve Got Mail and I have Princess Bride which I love. I have made numerous attempts to read Pride and Prejudice and just can’t get through the second chapter (I made it through the first on account of it being so short). I did enjoy the husband complaining about his wife who talks too much about marriage, which I quite agree. It just grosses me out. Mark Twain once said, "Any library which doesn’t contain a copy of Jane Austen is a good library, even if there are no other books in the library." Which makes me feel a lot better about not liking an accomplished author.As for Charles Dickens.... I envision, along with countless Americans, the "Dickens England" to be one of rich, vibrant colors. One which swarmed with etiquette and grace. We see it most at Christmas time, little snow villages are sold which are modeled after that ideal Victorian Age of high elegance and morals.... And then I watched Sweeney Todd and all visions I had of that ideal were lost. Dickens didn’t paint those illusions himself. His books had as much horror and abuse in them as Sweeney Todd did, so I’m unclear when and how the truth of the "Sweeney Todd Age" switched to the "Victorian Age" with Dickens being their ideal. Aside from A Christmas Carol, I don’t see the connection from A to B.