Sarah Flanigan - Poetry Simply Put

I remember rain. Lots of rain. Endless rain. It was good for reading books, baking cookies, watching movies and napping.

Tapping at my window, while I slept, it proved that I held some small piece of real estate in the world. A minute corner with my name on it. I could let go of it and dream for a while. Knowing it would be there when I returned.

A piece of gray. Mist and vapor, blurry views and shivers. I pulled my robe around me tighter, as though that would keep out the chill. But the chill came from inside, from some deep and dark place that never warmed, that never calmed. If only the sun would show itself, I would feel safe.

I picked this place for its beauty and remoteness. Because it was surrounded by woods and wild flowers - celebrated by squirrels and skunks and badgers and birds. I could walk for hours without ever seeing another soul. I could let the dog out to adventure without worrying about cars and traffic, cruel neighbor children or anything more serious than his being skunked.

But the rain didn’t stop - and how it soaked through to the core and left its chill to invade every living thing. The trees bent like gumby dolls trying to embrace it. The sky filled with it and liquified the ground beneath its relentless assault. Pots caught the drips as they wept from the rafters. The damp spread like varicose veins throughout my little farmhouse and ensnared it in its web of wet, dreary gray.

Turning up the thermostat only made the damp warm and steamy. I put poker to the fire and the flames spurted and sputtered. I needed more firewood - my last log had been sacrificed to the fire.

Mulroy, my golden retriever, followed anxiously as I pulled on rubber boots and threw my slicker over my robe. I sighed. I didn’t want to go out there. The bruised sky, angered and violent, dared anyone to defy her.

“Come on, boy.” I opened the door and cursed the sheets of water separating me from my wood. My source of warmth and solace. It was nestled in the shed, under a bright blue tarp and probably dryer than I was. An easy walk on a cool evening. A mere fifty feet from where I stood. But I could barely make out its shape through the vaporous curtain that the air had become.

I put a leash on Mulroy, hoping he would lead me to the shed rather than drag me through the mud. Perhaps I should have reconsidered. Should have listened to the nag in my head. But I shook off my doubts and plunged ahead with Mulroy. I would be soaked by the time I returned, but I would have in my possession the holy grail of lonely, rainy nights in the country. Wood. The source of all warmth and safety. The embers of life.

Delighted, my dear Mulroy galloped like a randy pony in the middle of it all. Puddles and mud flew into oblivion in every direction beneath our stomp and jump. I tugged on his leash to rein him in and help me to the shed, but Mulroy was too joyous an animal to ignore the adventure.

Several slips and mud successfully oozed into my boots and we made it to the shed. It was colder and damper in the shed than the house and I worried it was all for naught. The wood would smoke and refuse to catch but I was there and so was it - the choice had been made.

I had no flashlight or lantern, just the thinnest fingers of grey light through the open door. I threw back the tarp to get at my treasure and a plump rat leapt out and we shrieked at each other. Mulroy barked and took chase after the varmint as the leash slid through my wet and frozen fingers. “Damn it! Mulroy!” I peered through the open doorway and saw nothing but the sheets of water that pummeled the earth. “Where are you? Mulroy!” A distant bark, my only answer.

“Fine!” I gathered the driest logs into my carrier. “If he wants to get soaked to the bone in order to chase a damned rat, then fine!” I was mad at myself for being there. I should have just let the heater do its job, as poorly as it did, at least I wouldn’t be soaked and shivering and trying to figure out how to carry more wood than I was able to the house. Without getting it wet. “You’re out of your mind, Georgia. Just forget it and go back to the house.”

But my stubborn streak wouldn’t hear of it. No, I went for wood and I would return with wood. Period. I spied the wheel barrel behind the many rakes and tools I was convinced I needed once, but languished in the shed without notice. An annoying reminder that I’d never organized as I’d resolved to do countless times. Moving the tools only succeeded in wedging me between the wall and the stacks of everything else I had crammed into the shed. With a grunt, I wrenched the wheel barrel free. Thunk, went the wood. “That should do it.” I was proud of myself for my ingenuity. Soon, the fire would be blazing and I’d be reading my trashy novel and eating popcorn. I could taste the buttery, salty crunch in my mouth with the thought of it.

There wasn’t enough room to turn around with the heavy load, I would need to back out. I tugged with one hand and pushed open the door with the other. Easy does it. Ignore the thunder of the rain, just keep moving . . .

I heard a creak or a crack - was it Mulroy, back to help? And everything was falling down and the sound, oh the sound was so painful, so loud . . . crashing all around me and on top of me. And everything went black.

***

I opened my eyes but could not see. My brain told my arm to move but it could not. It was cold and wet and I could not move, could not feel anything except a weight . . . a pressure. “Mulroy,” I called with all of my voice but it was a hoarse whisper. The rain crawled over me and tortured with icy hands. And the world went black again. And I felt the overwhelming urge to let go. To join the blackness that surrounded me and dive in. Like a warm, cottony embrace that whispered of comfort and safety. My eyes popped open - and the heat of fear surged through me. I was not going to die in a shed, on a rainy afternoon, alone and helpless.

“Open your eyes, Georgia,” I told myself. I looked around, willing my vision to adjust to the shades of black and grey. I tried to see my arms and legs, to connect with them and get them to help me. Ah . . . my left hand wiggled. “Good. Now, where are you? ” I talked to myself as though a drill sergeant to a recruit. My vision slowly adjusted. And I could see some light above me - the source of the cold wet - part of the roof had collapsed and I was buried beneath it. Though not all of me, my left side was wedged beneath the wheel barrel, which was probably the only thing that kept me from being crushed. The door was behind my head and closed - I would have to inch back toward the door to try to escape. I took the deepest breath I could and willed my body backwards. “Ah!” The pain. Blinding. White.

My ears strained for Mulroy’s bark or whimper. “Mulroy,” I croaked. Rain, drumming on everything it hit. Another deep breath and push back. Stars this time and a shock seared through my body. “Again!” I commanded myself. I was not going to die beneath a collapsed shed in the rain. I would not stand for it. If I could only wrench my left arm free. Pull. Pain. Tug. More pain. Scream my head off, let the pain out and tug some more. Tears of fear and frustration raced down my face and joined the rain. I tried again and the blackness came.

From a distant place I heard him. A whimper, a cry, scratching at the door. “Mulroy? Here boy.” The bark came then, loud and welcomed. “Here boy, come to mama,” I egged him on. “Here boy,” I said again and again, sending him into a frenzy of need to get to me. He barked, scratched, whined. I heard his big snout taking in the scent of me, his mistress, his safety. Big paws thwapping at the door, nosing at the door, trying to get in. “Here boy,” I kept calling. “Come here. Here, Mulroy, here!”

And then I felt it, his nose on my face, his slobbering tongue licking my hair, my eyes, my cheeks. “Good boy,” I wept. “Good, good boy!” I had to get my arm free. I had to find the leash. I had to! “Ahhhh!” I screamed and it was free. My breath, shallow rushed in and out of my lungs. My heart pounded louder than the rain. Slow it down, had to slow it down. Focus!

“Good boy, Mulroy,” I reached for his snout and he nuzzled my hand. “Good boy,” I murmured. My fingers crawled down his neck for the collar and found it. They held fast, fearful of letting go - but I needed the leash. Where was it? My fingers were so numb I barely knew what the clutched. “Good boy,” I said to soothe myself, “good boy.” Slowly, I loosened my grip on the collar, tentatively seeking the leash, the strong leather leash that would be my lifeline. Metal, cold and brilliant made contact with my fingers, the connection to the leash and life itself. Yes, I had it! I pulled hard and Mulroy backed up - little. It would work. It might work. It had to work. “Back, Mulroy, back!” My beautiful boy obeyed and I started to move back with him. “Good boy! Good boy!”

He pulled and he pulled. My arm shrieked with pain but I concentrated only on being pulled free from the pile of wood and rain that trapped me. An inch at a time, the pressure lifted, my right arm free I reached over my head to join my left and held on during the white light of agony that surged. “Back, Mulroy, back,” I said endlessly. My boy always obeying, struggling but relentless. He would not leave me. He would die with me if he had to because he would not leave me. And with the final tug, I was free of the wreckage and I lie there, crying and laughing and unable to move.

Crash. The shed took its final leap and collapsed. A pile of sodden wood and tin that could no longer fight the rain. But could Mulroy, wet and shivering pull me the rest of the way home? A mere fifty feet that seemed impossibly far. I had to roll over on my stomach and crawl. If I could crawl and Mulroy could pull, we might make it. We might get home.

The sky opened up again and poured down on us. Lightening crackled and thunder boomed as though the earth would break open up wide. The pain was lost in the fear and I rolled. “Back, Mulroy,” I screamed in the roar. “Back!” He pulled and I crawled and the mud threatened to eat us both and swallow up what was left of us. “Back, boy, back!” And the blackness came again.

“Georgia?” the voice was soft and melodic. My eyes fluttered open and I felt the warmth of the sun soak into me. My heart soared and the fear fell away. “Georgia?”

I could not see for the sunshine in my eyes. “Who’s there?” My eyes could not see.

“Stay with me,” the voice cooed.

“Where am I?”

“Stay with me and you will be happy,” the voice came again - but different.

“Who are you? Where are you? I can’t see . . . ”

“You must stay with me,” the voice lost its benevolence. “Stay with me!”

My eyes opened to the gray and rain. So cold and afraid. Mulroy and I lie on the porch. He nestled against me to share his body heat. The rain thundered on the roof of the porch but did not pour down on us. We were home. Almost. I lie still and tried to feel my body. Was it a broken, useless heap or could I move? I couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel anything but the cold and wet and numb that had been mine for . . . how long? How long had I been trapped? How long had it taken us to get here?

Deep breath, get up on all fours. Collapse to the floor. Another deep breath and will myself to my knees. “Here boy,” I whispered and he came to me, crying and cold. I could lean on him and he would let me. My hand found the doorknob and turned and we crawled inside. We were home. We were safe.

 (The following story is a joint effort by Sarah Flanigan and Jess Em. We hope you enjoy it.)

The mean summer sun burned a hole in the sky and glared down at me. Mocking and relentless. Grimacing, I turned the key in the ignition and heaved a breath of surrender.The journey to Monday morning dread had begun and I navigated the streets on autopilot.

The weekend was never long enough, nor the work week short enough. Dread was my only friend and confidant there and it whispered in my ear, “Turn back. Go home.” I turned the music up louder. I still heard my dread whimper and whine but pretended to sing along.

My office building loomed over the tiny, surrounding shops and mimicked an architectural flip off. Or maybe it was just my attitude that colored it that way. Nothing like going to a job where you are feared and hated to get the bitter taste of resentment going and the stomach acid brewing.

The slowest elevator in the world is in my building, like the largely old world neighborhood in which it resides, it lumbers and groans with each effort to move forward.

Odd. An empty lobby at 8:58 a.m. A first. I glanced toward the street, through the open door, was there any traffic? “Dah-ding!” the elevator announced, and I moved inside like the good soldier. Each floor announced with a smaller, less significant ding. Top floor, end of the line. The doors opened like a pair of ancient elephants parting company.

The empty hallway smelled of grit and old ashtrays and people who were anti-deodorant. I reached for my keys but the door was already open. No doubt, one of my employees was trying to prove something or angling for a pay raise.

I pushed the door wide, my hand flat against the cool surface. “Morning,” I murmured but there was no one there. I ambled further into the belly of the beast. The staff kitchen was surely atwitter with discussions of dates, diets and bad television shows.

But in my approach, I heard no voices, smelled no coffee, felt no energy. “Why are all the lights off back here?” I groused when my knee hit the door jamb. A flick of the wrist and there was light but nothing else.

“Damned cleaning crew,” I muttered, realizing they’d left the door open. I checked the safe and the cash drawer but everything was as I’d left it the night before.

Urgent and shrill the phone rang and jolted me into the corner of my desk. “Crap!” I dove for the phone. “Good morning, Dr. Black’s office, may I help you?” The screech of a fax scratched at my eardrums and I slammed the phone down.

Where the hell was everybody? Why was it so quiet? I could almost believe I was the only person in the building.

Shrugging it off, I started a pot of coffee and poured a cup when it finished brewing. Astounded by my luck, I found some real half and half and watched the swirls it made in the hot, aromatic brew.

9:15 a.m. Still, no one had arrived. No one had called. Where were they? I turned on the radio while I prepared for the onslaught of patients that would pour through the door any minute. Helen Reddy sang, You and Me Against the World. Irony, I love it. I sang along while I executed the mundane chores of turning off voice mail, checking for messages - none? Printing off the appointments for the day.

Whoosh, the door opened. “Finally,” I said, craning my neck through the cashier’s window. “I was beginning to think . . . ” My words were sucked into a vacuum. No one there. Just an open door. I went through the adjoining door to the waiting room and crossed to the door to close it but felt compelled to look out into the hallway. No one. I stepped out. All the other doors were open but the offices were empty. The creepy-crawly feeling that hurried up my spine put my feet in motion and I retreated into the office. I locked the door behind me. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“Stop it. Just call them. They are all late and that’s all that’s going on.” I lectured myself as I fumbled through my Rolodex for phone numbers. First I dialed the doctor. A recording said the number was disconnected. I dialed again. Same recording.

My chest tightened and I pushed down the panic that was trying to snake its way up my throat. “Calm down, will you?” I told myself. I dialed the next number. And the next. And the next. All of them were disconnected. What are the odds that every number I had written down was wrong? I dialed information. What else could I do? Oh come on, that number was disconnected too?

I gave up on the phone and regarded it suspiciously. “Am I being punked?” I looked around, smiling. “Okay, you can all come out now. Very funny. Come on! I’m onto you, no point in keeping up the charade.” I smiled and grinned. Of course, I was on Candid Camera or something. They were playing a joke on me and were watching all of it from a video van on the street.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and went back to my desk. They’d wander in shortly, thinking they had done something funny. “Screw them,” I said and turned on my computer. I clicked on my email but nothing came up. Strange. No email, again? “Servers must be down.” I clicked on my homepage, again nothing came up. Not even an error page. Nothing. As though there was no Internet.

I eyed the clock - 10 a.m., still no one. Still, the utter quiet. I’d had enough. I didn’t know what was going on but I was leaving. Maybe it was a holiday or they’d gone to a party without me but I was damned if I was going to sit there all day by myself. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. My hand closed on the doorknob but it wouldn’t turn. Thud, went my heart. Oh right, I’d locked it. I released the deadbolt. Still, the handle wouldn’t turn. “What the hell?” I twisted at the knob, banged my fists on the door. “Hey, let me out! Hey, is anybody out there? Hello? Hey!”

But no one was and now I was trapped inside. My brain buzzed. I was suddenly hot and felt sweat trickle down my back and under my arms. My pulse raised and panic nagged at my insides. I made myself breathe. The door was just stuck or something. There was no diabolical plot in play. I let out a breath, counted to ten and tried the door again, but slowly. It turned. I pulled it open. No one there. No one in the hallway. I locked the door behind me and headed for the stairs.

As I descended each flight of stairs, I tried to rationalize everything. Where the hell could they all be? Why was no one in the building? Why hadn’t I seen one person since my arrival?

I reached the parking level to the staff lot and pushed through the door. The lot was empty. Empty! There really wasn’t anyone there but me. I had to duck under the barricade at the driveway to get through because, surprise, that wasn’t working either. I felt relieved that I’d parked on the street. I don’t know why I decided to, I just did. Lucky for me, I thought.

I walked and it was just me and the birds. There was not one car on the road. Not one. Not one person on the street but me. The panic started screaming in my head again, and it was screaming for me to run. Run!

My feet flew and I was at my car panting and looking around as though the boogie man would jump out and snatch me away to the dark planet. I unlocked the door and got inside, turned the ignition and pulled away. The streets were like the building, eerily empty. As though all the life had been sucked out of the area. Every light I hit was green. There was no traffic. For twenty minutes I drove, apparently the only car in the entire city, traveling.

Finally, I pulled into my drive. I was home and my panic fell away. I knew if I just could get inside the house, all the nonsense would disappear. I got out of the car on rubbery legs. The key turned the lock and I opened the door. Cool air rushed at me from the dark cavern within.

“Sparky?” I called my dog. She hadn’t come running to the door to welcome me. I walked into the livingroom. I whistled. “Here, girl!” I went to the patio door and looked out to the yard. Empty. Just green grass and the Mimosa tree, swaying in the hot breeze.

There was no point in looking further. The house was empty, even I didn’t seem to occupy the space. I was alone. I was completely alone. In my house. Maybe in the world. What cruel trick was God playing on me?

Breathe. In, out, in out. Bring air into my body, think, breathe out. Don’t panic. Think. That is what I told myself. It worked for a moment. Try the home phone, try my cell phone, turn on the television - see if anything works.

No phone, no cell. A vortex of empty sound buzzed across the phone lines. The silence screamed. This couldn’t be real. Unless . . . it was them.

I went into the kitchen for a glass of water, and I heard it - the light tapping at the back door. Incessantly tap, tap, tap, tap, tap-rhythmically, never stopping, tapping lightly in tune with the breeze. But there was no breeze. The air was thick beyond anything I had ever known. No life, no wind, no sound. What happened to all the sound? Nothing except the tapping at the back door.

I knew what it was. I’d heard it only once before, in a time and place that still haunted my dreams, my worst nightmares. The tapping meant they had come. They found me, they knew me, and they were waiting.

I went out the back door, pulled down the line spliced between the roofing tiles, and disconnected it from the lintel at the back door. They would know, soon. But it didn’t matter anymore.

Panic skittered up my spine, my fingers shaking; I went into my bedroom and pulled up the floorboard, for inside was the small box I knew they wanted. The box! If I destroyed the box, the air would come back. The people would come back. Everything would be okay again, nothing lost. “Remember - if this comes into the wrong hands all is lost. There are many who would destroy that which we protect for what is inside this small rectangular container. Never, never let it go to them.”

Fire, air. Together they would eradicate the life inside the box. The life that was destroying the very essence of everything. They wanted it, for it would give them the power. I had to let the others know, but didn’t know how. Except - if I died, they’d know why.

Fire, air. Pure air. I needed pure air. I could make fire, but pure air, without the taint of exhaust and pollutants, no residue. I had a plant, a small umbrella tree, but it would work.

Voices -outside my house, my little home where I felt safe. Where I should have been safe. Sweat beaded on my back, my heart pounded so hard I was sure they could hear it. How did they find me? Were there any others still alive? Time stopped in this farce, this fevered moment in which I questioned my sanity, my being. I heard the voices. And I knew they had come for me.

I took the box, and the matches to the plant, and hurried to strike the match and set the box aflame. I heard them, the voices coming louder and louder from inside the box, and outside the house, and I knew they were close - too close. I had to stop them, destroy it, before they destroyed all.

As the air sucked into the fire, it grew hotter and hotter, crackling away the edges of the box, the plant, the table, and the curtains. The flames licked up the walls of my house, and I knew I should leave, run, but it was my debt to see the box destroyed. To make sure it died - completely destroyed. I felt the fire growing hotter, larger, coming closer, and I had won. As the smoke thickened, my eyes blurred, I lay down to my last moments on earth, and savored my victory over them. And I heard them scream. I had won. The darkness closed around me and, I smiled. The box was destroyed.

I slipped into the blackness.

copyright Sarah Flanigan & Jess Em 2007

Hi everyone,
My friend Writer Chick, has a fun post up. It’s a round robin, in which all her readers can add to a group story. If you have time and interest, please go visit and add to the story if you’ve a mind to. I just did. This is fun!
Much love,
Sarah

I loved him lifetimes ago - when i was young and beautiful and didn’t know a thing about life or myself.

The night was eerie in its stillness as though every connection I had to the world had gone silent. I was alone with just my thoughts. How many times I’d wished for such bliss - but now with the wish true a dread welled up in me and I was overtaken with a wave of exhaustion.

My eyelids heavy, my movements halting and clumsy. Yet my mind alert to crystal clarity, perceptions razor sharp. I wondered why I’d never never taken up drink or drug for now it would serve me handily to dull the mind and numb the memories. I choked on another cigarette whose smoke stung my eyes but did nothing to alter my senses.

And I remembered.

But why? Why now? So many years and tears had passed since then. So many other lesser heartaches and breaks. So many more well layed plans gone awry. So many everythings and nothings. What would make my memory cause him to rise to the top? It’s the problem with writers’ minds they never shut up. They never stop trolling for thoughts and ideas, memories and experiences. The constant farmer of simile and metaphor, sentence and syntax. Harvesting the crops of rearrangement and what if?

I was simply playing a game of what if, wasn’t that right? I’ve done it all my life, as far back as I could remember. What if I’d been a boy instead of a girl? What if Mom had liked me best? What if I were tall and thin? Better still, rich and thin?

Tonight the what if was about him. What if I’d taken that road and not this one? Would we still be together? Looking back on all our many years as a we? How many children would we have? Who would they look like? Girls or boys? What would their names be? Would he have built me that cabin in the sky he always talked about? Would he still be grabbing my ass in public, the sheepish grin spread across his face as I slapped his hand away?

Maybe it was the wine or the sleep deprivation or just chance that I wrote my column about him and us. It poured out of me through fingertips madly tapping at keys. Without an edit, a re-read or even a spellcheck - I attached it to the email to my editor and clicked send. It went off into cyberspace where it would land in Larry’s inbox. Exhausted I fell to sleep.

***

I meant to put everything away on New Year’s day - take down the tree, the lights, wrap the ornaments with care and tuck them away in their assigned boxes. Instead, I watched movies all day long, with the fireplace at full-tilt, eating stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy. It was heaven. My favorite ratty sweater wrapped around old sweats with thick socks on my feet, it felt as though I could be in that moment of comfort forever.

But come the 2^nd I stumbled to the shower, dressed like a normal human being and started my all day wrap up of the holiday decorations. Leftovers were dumped, wrapping paper stowed, carpets vacuumed of all the needles and errant tinsel. Santa hats, reindeer ears, snowglobes, pinecones stowed. When I was finished not a trace of ho, ho, ho was left.

“Now what?” I asked my dog Sparky, who was still nibbling on a piece of tinsel my very expensive vacuum had missed.

She wagged her tail, barked and zoomed up and down the hallway - her little trick to make me laugh. It worked as it always did.

Someone knocked. I jumped. I rarely had visitors who just dropped by and all of my close friends were still out of town or otherwise engaged. I looked through the peephole. “What the…?”

I opened the door and there stood Larry in all his 5 foot 6 glory - overcoat and gloves, jaunty hat and rosey cheeks. “Hi…what are you doing here?”

He helped himself to the inside without invitation - as was his habit - and stamped his feet. “Fricking cold out there. What took you so long? Afraid it was the IRS or something?”

“Well do come in,” I wisecracked. “And never make IRS jokes to freelance writers - it’s just cruel.”

He tore off his coat and went to the fire and made a show of warming his hands. “Nice.”

Sparky jumped on him, wagged her tail, licked his face and did her zooming trick. He laughed just as he was supposed to and it was really just charming to see the two of them together. In fact, I felt I was almost interupting.

“Ah Lar, what’s up?”

“Oh right - the column.”

I waited for more information, none came. “Which column and what about it?”

“The one we ran yesterday - you know, The Road….something.”

I went a little stiff - like I was preparing for a slug in the gut. “Uh-huh? Something wrong?”

He opened his mouth and chattered like a monkey on fermented bananas. I can’t say I remember much of what he said except, ‘loved it’ ‘lots of calls and emails’ ‘follow up’ ‘let’s find this guy’

“Find this guy? What?” I was choking on an imaginary crumb that had closed my wind pipe.

He poured himself a glass of wine and sat back in my favorite chair. “Yeah, it was a real - heart tugger Lucy - didn’t you read the emails?”

“What emails?” I poured myself a glass of wine, I had a feeling I was going to need it. “I’ve been cocooning, I haven’t had my computer on for a few days. I needed to be unplugged for a while.” I shook my head to shake off the cotton batting it seemed wrapped in. “Larry, could you just give me the short version?”

He was in the kitchen, head stuck in my refrigerator. “Don’t you have any snacks?”

I nudged him out of my fridge and shut the door. “Look Larry, this isn’t a social visit. I didn’t invite you over for dinner so we could chum around and eat leftovers and chat like best girlfriends. You showed up here unannounced talking through your hat and you’re not getting to the point. So, knock off the cute stuff and tell me what you want.”

He shrugged, “okay have it your way.” Still he hesitated. “Okay, look…that column you wrote, which was really good by the way, kudos. We’ve been getting phone calls and emails ever since we ran it. About twenty guys called and said they were the guy you were talking about and wanted your phone number. About a hundred women called and wanted to send you sympathy cards . Some producer wants to start a reality tv show based on it. It’s fricking pandemonium…”

“Okay. So what?”

“So…” He smiled. “You’re not going to believe this.” He took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me.

I snatched it from him. “All this fadderall because you have a letter for me?” I rolled my eyes but then they settled on the envelope. My stomach clutched. I knew that handwriting and the return address confirmed it. “This can’t be.”

Larry grinned the shittingest shit-eating grin of all time. “It’s him, isn’t it? It’s from him.”

No way in hell was I going to have Larry watch me open and read that letter. No way in hell was anybody going to see that. “Okay, thanks for bringing it by.”

“What? You’ve got to be kidding…I came all the way out here to bring you that letter and…”

I shoved his coat, gloves and hat in his hands. “Thanks for dropping by,” I said as I nudged him toward the front door. He tried to dig in but how much resistance can one 140 pound guy dish out? “I’ll call you next week, Larry. I’ve got some ideas for a few columns this year and we’ll make some plans, okay?”

He went but not happily or willingly. I watched through the window as he trudged to his car, muttering to himself. I waited until he drove away and then I watched for a few more minutes to make sure he wasn’t just circling the block.

I locked the door, unplugged the phone and put the letter on my desk. Then I took a bubble bath.

***

There wasn’t a part of me that didn’t want to rip open that letter and read what I wanted to hear. Yet…I couldn’t open it. I couldn’t bring myself to bring my fantasy to an end. I knew, I just knew it was bad news. It was one of those , ‘hi, how the heck are you and here’s a picture of me, my wife and five kids,’ kind of letters. If it had said anything else it wouldn’t have been a letter, it would have been a phone call or even him on my doorstep. But no, not a letter.

And so it sat on my desk and taunted me. Read me, read me, read me!!!! I resisted. Everytime I reached for it my stomach dived and my head spun.

***

I finally turned on my computer and plugged in my phone. 300 emails - after reading two or three of them I deleted them all. I just wasn’t interested in reading about lost loves of hundreds of other women. I already knew the pain and the ache - I didn’t need to relive it in a thousand different ways.

Phone. “Hello.”

“So, what did he say?”

“I don’t know, Larry. I didn’t read it.”

Long pause. “You didn’t read it?”

“No, and I don’t think I’m going to.” Silence is excruciating over the phone. “Okay, want to talk about my column ideas? We should make some plans because well, you know…time’s awasting.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t read it,” he murmured.

I laughed. “You sound so disappointed.”

“Look,” his voice sounded different - concerned even. “I know this isn’t any of my business but if you don’t read that letter you’ll regret it. You put yourself out there, ripped open your heart of hearts and bared your soul in that column. And he came back to you. Don’t you see that you have to read it?”

“I’ll call you back.” I hung up. It scared me that Larry the goofy editor had turned into a caring human being right before my eyes or ears… He was right. I did have to read it. No matter what it said. No matter what I thought I knew was in it. No matter what, I had to read it.

I was scared. No matter what it said I was afraid to read it. Afraid to open the door. And I’d been down that road before. Twice after we ended it we saw each other again. Twice I let him leave my life and maybe even pushed him a little. Why did I do that? Why couldn’t I take that chance? Maybe that was the real reason I couldn’t open the letter. Maybe I needed to keep that door closed in reality and only open in the fantasy.

I put on my coat and jammed the letter in my pocket, whistled for Sparky and went out into the daylight. We trudged through the snow to my favorite place - a stand of pines at the edge of my property. The sky was blue ice and a bright winter sun cast our shadows over the blanketed landscape. Sparky spied a squirrel and took off for parts unknown. I sat down and leaned against the giant pine and took off my gloves. It was cold and my fingers stung as I pulled out the letter. I traced the lines of his scrawl across the envelope - my eyes were heavy with tears. A message from my lost love and I was trembling with fear.

“Okay, enough!” I said aloud and eased open the flap. Just a single sheet of paper, no photographs or business cards. Just one sentence scrawled across it:

I miss you too.

Four words. Just four words. But they meant so much.

I sat there for a long time - the letter clutched in my hand. Staring at the words. The four words I wanted to be there. I couldn’t think beyond the now of it. The words. Couldn’t think what I would do or not do. What would come next or wouldn’t. Just the now of the four words that erased so much hurt and ache and longing.

Sparky returned, without a dead squirrel in her mouth (praise the heavens!) We trudged back to the house. She thinking of doggie treats, and I of hot tea and a fire in the fireplace. My hand holding fast to the letter in my pocket.

Was it the sun dipping low that made the shadows shift near the front door? I was cold and tired and my eyes were seeing things that weren’t there. “Lucy?”

I stopped. My world collapsed into that one moment. The shadow moved again but toward me. “Michael?”

The blue eyes I knew so well said, yes.

copyright 2006

Hello. I hope you enjoyed your holiday and it was what you wanted it to be.

I have a few new stories I will be working on over the next few days - so I will be a little bit scarce. I promise not to be gone long and hopefully when I return, they’ll be something new for you to read and enjoy.

In the meantime, be well, stay safe and count your blessings - they are all around you.

Much love,

sarah