joyful!

"Make happy those who are near, and those who are far will come." Unknown

Fiction

MARCH

Mes Bons Mots

Richard Crow III

I loved you before I’d even seen you, when you were nothing more than a thought and a whimsy and a fluttering in your mother, when you were a piece of news to tell friends and family and a reason to clean house and get serious about moving to Atlanta. I loved you when you were a staticky rhythm, a heartbeat, heard through a tiny mids-heavy speaker. I loved you when you were a black and white image on a screen in a doctor’s office, a recreation of the radiographic waves sent there and back and displayed on a monitor in the pulled-Venetian darkness of a Nashville afternoon, winter.

I loved you from the moment you were an alien thud and ridge of the skin of Your Mother’s growing belly. I loved you during those moments when you were this spectral something, amorphous and undetermined but like something more than in our heads, that lay between Your Mother and me even as we held each other tight from fear and expectation and excitement and awe and hurting backs.

I loved you as I shuffled, bleary-eyed, late night, to the hospital kitchen and piled small cartons of cranberry and orange juice into my arms for Your Mother, because the contractions were too close together and she hadn’t slept in 27 hours. I loved you even as I held Your Mother’s hand and as she screamed and as I saw the top of your black-haired head and the lights were turned on bright in anticipation and as the doctor instructed Your Mother to push and she did and she screamed and she did. I loved you all of those times, and I loved Your Mother all of those times too, and I loved what we’d made. Together.

…but then I saw you, on the table, under lights and heat and alive and eyes open and not just some idea in my head but real and alive and eyes open, and just then, at that moment, I realized that I’d never actually known what love even was, that I’d been a man who didn’t even know he was drowning until the lifeline was in his hands. I’d never known. Not until just that moment…

And then I loved you all over again but this time with the fullness that I’d never known was there but which you found in me and which is all yours, and will be yours forever. I loved you unashamedly, fiercely, without pride, without expecting anything in return, without worry of how I looked, or concern for my hair or clothes or weight, like the man in that raging sea, lifeline in hand. I surrendered my helplessness gladly, to you and to us and to Your Mother and to everything that will come later. I surrendered whatever I’d known about myself before that moment, realizing that everything that had been was like a beam of light that would forever, gloriously, be bent by the prism of you, alive, eyes open.

I loved you because I had no other choice but to love you. You are you.

And I love you.

The Bear of Memories

Timothy Schaekely

“Do you remember Daddy, do you remember when we went to the cabin and the bear came close to attacking us?”

“Yes I do. That was a very scary moment Molly, why do you bring it up?”

“I just love the story Daddy could you tell it again?”

“One day, Daddy and his three children went to their cabin in Grand Marais.”

“What were the children’s names, Daddy, what were they?”

“Well, let’s see. There was Molly. There was Elizabeth. And there was Little Ben.”

The children smiled as they heard their names.

“Everything seemed safe. Everything was quiet. It was the day before Christmas. Daddy and the children knew that this Christmas was going to be different. It would not be the same without Mommy.”

“Daddy went out on the deck and into the woods to get some air, while the children listened to Christmas carols and anticipated what they might get for Christmas. “

“I, I got a Tonka truck,” Little Ben shouted.

“I remember, we were listening to “Deck the Halls. I love that song. Can we sing it Daddy?” Elizabeth added to the excitement.

“We will, right after we finish this story. You do want to hear it don’t you?”

“Yeah!” All the children said joyfully in unison.

“Daddy heard something in the woods. He turned and looked. There was a great big bear.”

He heard a disturbance in the woods and saw a bear. He wasn’t scared at first just curious. He imagined the bear mauling him to death. He felt some comfort about the idea. He wanted to be with his wife. He wished his wife was with him, and that he could spend Christmas together as a family.

“But, Daddy wasn’t scared.”

“You weren’t scared Daddy?”

“Oh, no, wasn’t scared the least bit. The great big bear roared at Daddy, and came chasing after him.”

Suddenly, he heard the noise louder and closer. The bear was running at him. The he stood there for a moment not reacting. He wanted his dream to come true. He wanted the bear to maul him.

“Then what happened, Daddy, what happened next?” Molly spoke up with anticipation.

“Daddy tackled the bear with his own two hands, pinned him to the ground, looked him in the eye and said, ‘Leave my children alone.’”

Then he remembered his children. He thought it wasn’t fair that a sickness like cancer could take his wife away and the mother from his children. It wasn’t fair that a bear was now threatening to kill him and his family. He couldn’t lose any more. He threw a rock at the bear. The bear was distracted by the rock enough that he could escape safely back to the cabin. When he arrived, he hugged his children, told them to go to bed and he went to bed too. For the first time since his wife died, he could sleep without crying.

“And he left and never came back, Daddy?” Elizabeth asked in innocence.

“That mean old bear wouldn’t dare come back. He knows that no one can mess with your Daddy. Daddy defeated the bear, went back to the cabin, hugged and kissed his children good night, and they all went to bed waiting for Christmas morning. Theeeeee End.”

The Tree

D.J. Morris

The dew covered the blossoms budding at the top of the tree. Sixty feet up, the tree stretched and still grew. Below, where the trunk widened and spread close to the ground, the bark formed rough crevasses. As the tree rose, its gray-brown bark gnarled up and around and then gradually softened to a smooth, gray-white texture as the tree sent dozens of limbs dancing into the sky. The dozens of limbs sent hundreds of branches swirling in the music of the season. The branches whispered forth twigs and tendrils as the echoes of the song.The sun had already lightened the early morning to a blue-white shade of sky. The tree cast a shade of emerald lace upon a lawn decorated with dandelions.

The child gazed up, entranced by the wispy, willowy dance of the tree. She walked round the trunk tracing the paths of the bark. She stooped to peer into the crevasses of the roots and then stood to rub the smoothness that started just above her head. She sniffed at the moss that grew on the tree and then touched it gingerly to see if it was as velvety as it looked.

She sat on the grass and waved her palms lightly over the tips of the blades feeling their delicate sharpness. She lay back on the grass, still cool and damp despite the brightness of the sun. Gazing up again at the woven tree limbs, she reached up as if to touch them with her fingertips. She waved her arms back and forth while singing a song to herself.

Her father watched all of this from the gazebo. He had come out to enjoy his morning coffee in solitude yet felt blessed to have glimpsed a moment of his daughter’s joy. He rose from his seat and strolled across the lawn until he reached the tree. He glanced up at the initials carved into the tree and then forced himself to look away. He wanted to keep the familiar ache at bay. He turned back to his daughter who was still singing. When she paused to make up more lyrics, he softly called to her. “Chelsea.”

Chelsea lifted her head and smiled broadly and fully. “Hi Daddy!”

Her smile tugged almost painfully at something in his chest. He felt no urge to resist the pull, and stepping closer, he crouched beside her.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Just playing with the tree and the grass,” she responded happily.

Going along with the game, he asked, “Why do you play with a tree and the grass?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I just do.”

“Is it fun?”

“Uhhuh.” She continued to lie on her back and wave her arms back and forth.

He pondered how to join in. He feared he would chase away the spirit of the moment with his awkwardness. “Can you show me how to play?”

Her eyes blinked and she sat up, staring squarely at him. She had not known that her father could possibly not know how to do something as simple as playing. It confounded her. She hesitated while she carefully placed this thought in a soft corner in her mind. She then smiled again.

“Okay! Sit down here next to me.”

His turn to hesitate; from the logical lobes of his brain, he retrieved thoughts of grass stains on his khaki pants. He drew a breath and carefully placed them back where they came from. He sat down cross-legged beside her.

“Here, touch the grass.” She pointed to a spot in front of them.

He patted a spot and left a matted handprint.

“No, no, no!”

Startled, he drew his hand back. “What’s wrong?”

“Here. Like this.” Clasping his hand, she lowered it to the middle of a dense clump. She slowly moved it back and forth and he felt the individual blades caress his palm. She pointed to where he had squashed the grass. “Look there.” The bent blades were slowly springing back up, one by one. He felt a sense of the inevitable and the possible.

“Now stand up,” she commanded.

He complied and let himself be led to the tree. He followed her directions and fingered the bark, noting the weathered cracks. He got down on all fours to peer at the violets that had sprouted along the roots that penetrated the earth beneath them. He peered into a hole at the base. She said it was home for bunnies and ladybugs and he allowed himself to almost believe her. Eventually, he lay beside her while she chatted about the tree limbs and branches woven above them. “See? It’s easy to play with a tree.” He gently squeezed her hand.

She pointed at the tree. “What’s that?”

He followed her finger and realized she was referring to the carving.

“Those are my initials and your mother’s initials.”

Chelsea was quiet for a moment. “How’d they get there?”

“Before we were married, your mother and I used to come out here and sit under this tree. One time I carved “DK + BL” for my name, Daniel King, and your mother’s name, Bethany Lewis.”

“Why did you carve them together?”

“That’s a way that people sometimes show they’re in love.”

“Were you and Mommy in love?”

“Very much so.”

Chelsea was quiet again. “Did Mommy like this tree?”

“Oh, yes. She used to come out here all the time and sit under it. She would look up at the branches just like you do. In fact, it kind of amazes how much the two of you love this tree.”

“So Mommy played with the tree, too.” Chelsea said this as a statement rather than a question.

Her father thought for a moment and remembered back to when it was different, when they were three instead of two. “Yeah, Mommy played with the tree, too.”

So, maybe when we play with the tree, Mommy’s angel is playing with us.”

He hugged his daughter close. “Maybe you’re right.”

They lay quietly for a bit and then Chelsea sat up. “I’m hungry. Can we have breakfast?”

“Sure. Go ahead back to the house and wash up. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay.” She stood and brushed her knees off before trotting and skipping back to the house.

He watched her until the screen door slammed. Taking his penknife from his pocket, he carved an addition to the initials so they read “DK + BL = CK.” He stepped back and looked at it for a long moment.

He then smiled and patted the tree and headed back to the house.

A WHITE ROSE

Aimee Dearmon

“No! It can’t be. Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sure,” said the voice on the other side of the phone.

Paul appeared from nowhere and mouthed a, “What?” She shushed him with a flip of her hand.

“But, I just talked to her not ten minutes ago!” Greta said, incredulous.

“Well, ma’am. I don’t know what else to say. I know this must be a terrible shock for you.”

“Please,” she said, struggling to control her rising panic. “Humor me and check the name again. It’s Geraghty, G-E-R-A”

“G-H-T-Y, yes, ma’am, I know and I’m terribly sorry. We found her wallet and the car was registered…”

She shoved the phone at Paul and fled the room. From the patio she could still hear Paul’s responses. She covered both her ears and cried out loud, “No, no, no!”

Moments later, her husband was holding her, resting his head upon hers. She felt each wretched sob blend in harmony with her own.

“Oh God, Paul, please tell me it’s not true. It’s a mistake. It has to be a mistake!”

He held her tighter. “No, honey, it’s true. Delia’s gone,” he cried. “Our baby is gone.”

Together, they wailed for God only knows how long. Finally exhausted, they went inside to call the kids.

****

Greta watched the raindrops slide into one another forming tiny rivers on the outside of her kitchen window. The shock of her daughter’s death temporarily anesthetized her allowing her mind to wander back to what seemed like yesterday. Could it really have been twenty-six years ago?

Delia was a twin, a fraternal twin, and her only girl. In the beginning they looked like identicals; two mini Winston Churchills, bald and wizened. But, three months later it was easy to tell she was a pinkie without any help from the color.

She’d sewn Daniel’s shirts to match Delia’s dresses and smiled as she recalled how they’d attracted the attention of perfect strangers. On Halloween she dressed them up in his and her costumes, a cowboy and cowgirl, a prince and princess, until they were old enough to object.

There were times though, when having twins was an extraordinary challenge. After the birth of her third child Peter, a mere twelve months after the twins, all of them contracted an intestinal virus. Greta had to call her two sisters to bring more diapers. She’d used up all the disposables and had even gone through the brand-new cloth ones she'd kept for “just in case”.

When they had the chicken pox, they had all broken out in itchy, blister-like bumps, but poor little Delia’s body was covered. From a distance it looked like she had sunburn. At the time Greta thought she’d have been better at juggling bowling pins for a jaded audience than she was at appeasing three squalling babies.

****

The rain, slow and steady, added to Greta’s dejection. She wondered if it would ever let up when they passed a church. The sign out front read, “…and it rained for forty days and forty nights…” Greta smiled in spite of the tragic circumstances.

At last, the limousine pulled up in front of the funeral home. Dear God, she thought, she’d rather be headed to the gallows than to go into that place.

She pressed her face into Paul’s chest feeling his grief intertwine with hers the same way, she thought, as their love had the night their precious daughter was conceived. They collected themselves for a few minutes, and then faced the unavoidable and stepped from the car.

They arrived before the guests and were met by their two sons. It was hard to tell who was more distraught, Daniel, Delia’s twin, or Peter, her little brother. In spite of the fact that Delia was silent, she was still physically among them. It gave Greta the sense that her family was still complete. She clung to the feeling knowing that tomorrow a crucial piece of that completeness would be gone forever, like so many tiles from a perfect mosaic.

They agreed to close the casket. Delia looked beautiful. She truly looked as if she was only sleeping but the mark on her forehead, still visible in spite of the meticulous cover-up, was a reminder of the fatal impact that stole her from them. In the end, a small photograph of her smiling, porcelain face beneath a thick mane of auburn hair adorned the top of the mahogany casket.

****

The long night drew to a close and the trail of family and friends said their final goodbyes as they passed the casket. On their way out, each of them expressed a condolence and imparted a grain of strength Greta knew she could never have understood until now.

After locking the doors, the funeral director came back to the parlor to instruct the family on the next day’s proceedings when someone began banging on it. He ignored it and continued to talk above the noise. Greta was uncomfortable and knew Paul and the kids were as well, but they went along with him for a while. Finally giving in to whoever it was on the outside, the director quietly excused himself.

Moments later, he returned and announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Geraghty. It’s someone for you.”

Greta looked at Paul. The look on his face reflected her confusion.

“I tried to explain that we were closed, but she is so insistent. If you’d like me too, I can tell her…”

Paul broke in, “No, it’s okay.” He turned to Greta.

“Yes, we’ll see her,” Greta concurred and mentally started checking off the guest list as she and Paul followed the director to the door. She wondered whom she could have missed this evening.

He opened the door, and as gracious as ever, said, “This is Mr. and Mrs. Geraghty ma’am. And, now you see why I believe you are mistaken.”

In a voice that threatened to erupt, the slight, elderly, African-American woman raised her head and enunciated each word like staccato gunfire. “No sir, I am not!” She leaned over and called to Greta. “I know your daughter Mrs. Geraghty!”

Greta side-stepped the funeral director and searched beneath the snow-speckled, black scarf and dark, wool coat buttoned up to the neck. She was struck by the old woman’s eyes. They weren’t opaque or faded like many of the elderly. Hers were the color of amber with the fiery brilliance of topaz and held a sincerity that was inescapably compelling.

Then, she spied it. It nearly screamed at her in contrast to the dark figure holding it.

“Mrs. Geraghty, I tried to get here sooner,” the old woman said. “My heart broke for you when I found out about the accident. I just wanted to give you this with my sincerest sympathy. The world lost a good soul, ma’am, but she’s in a better place now. I’m sure of it.”

She gently placed a single white rose into Greta’s hand with both of her own. “God bless you, ma’am.” And then, she was gone.

Greta felt her senses begin to fade. She could feel her husband’s hands steady her and just as she was about to give in to the darkness, her consciousness returned.

Her mind reeled back to a conversation she’d held with her daughter a long time ago.

****

“Mama, what dress should I wear at my funeral?”

“Oh, you’re much too little to worry about that,” Greta laughed, although unnerved by the strange question.

“You mean little girls don’t die?”

“No, they don’t. Not usually.”

“Well, how about Mrs. Whitaker’s little girl?”

“What do you mean?”

“You and Mrs. Carmichael were talking about it.”

“You shouldn’t be listening to adult conversation.”

“What did her little girl wear?”

Greta stopped folding clothes and faced her daughter who was holding a photograph. “Give that to me.” She barked. She knew without looking it was that morbid photo of Paul’s grandmother in her casket, one that Delia had become fascinated with.

The little girl handed it over. “I think I want to wear the blue one with the ruffles and bow in the back. That’s a pretty one,” and chased after her kitten who’d whisked through the room and around a corner.

Rattled, Greta slipped the macabre print into her pocket, and then into the garbage on pick up day. She took the cans to the curb herself. But, that wasn’t the end of Delia’s preoccupation. Within days, the six-year-old brought the subject up again.

“Mama, I think I want to wear the dress with the red bird on the front of it.”

“What?”

“When I die. I want to wear the dress with the red bird on it.”

“Delia, that’s enough. You’re a little girl and little girls almost never die and I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Okay?”

“Okay,” Delia replied. Then, a few seconds later, “Mama. How will I let you know I got to heaven?”

“Delia, I said enough!” Greta snapped.

Delia shrank from her mother’s disapproval as tears quickly filled her eyes. “But, Mommy, how will you know? I don’t want you to worry,” she whined.

Greta felt like she had just kicked the family dog. Sighing, she drew her child into her arms. “Just send me an angel or a white rose or something, okay?” She put a finger to her daughter’s small face and wiped away a tear.

“But, will you know it’s from me?” Delia sniffed.

“I’ll know, honey.” She gave her one more squeeze. “Now, can forget about this? You’re a little girl and you’re not going to die and I only want you to think of good things now, okay?”

****

The rose was resilient. Greta handled it throughout the funeral. She held it as the cortege made its way out to the cemetery where Delia was laid to rest next to her grandmother. It rested in Greta’s lap on the long ride home and not a curve of a petal had darkened.

The still white flower is now centered in a silver frame amidst the rest of the family photos on a large wall in the living room. Greta has never had the slightest doubt as to where her daughter is. After all, she’d been sent an angel and a white rose.

Beyond all the Blessings

Mary Cassidy

Ezra looks out the window at the grey January day and wonders what has become of the children. A sheet of newspaper, caught by the wind, dances across the street before being whipped into the air and blown helter-skelter out of his sight. As the dark afternoon moves on toward dusk, the streetlights come to life, but Ezra cannot tell what time it is. He is sure it has been hours since the other children left, and he worries he has missed their return.

“Papa?” Daphna’s voice breaks into his thoughts, and he turns from the street toward her.

“Papa, you need to come from the window now. Supper is here.”

He is reluctant to leave his outpost, concerned something serious has happened to cause their delay. He reaches a wizened hand toward his granddaughter, gnarled fingers extending to grab her wrist.

“Yes, Papa?” She covers his hand with her own, warm against his coldness. “You are freezing, Papa. Come to the table, there is soup to warm you.” Her smile is wide and her tone the sing-song she adopts when speaking to him. He cannot remember when she came by this falseness, and it furthers the unease stirring within him. Before he can discuss this with her, he needs to clear his mind of the nagging worry.

“Die Kinder?” he asks; his voice raspy from disuse.

Daphna’s step hesitates. Ezra sees a familiar look come into her eyes. She looks frightened, and his heart catches. He has done it again. He has no idea why asking after the others causes her to look so distressed. She drops his hand and picks her way toward the table, glancing back at him once, her brow creased and lips pressed tight together. Ezra turns the wheels on his chair and arrives at the table as she ladles soup into bowls.

“Die Kinder? Daphna, wo sind sie?”

The soup ladle slips from Daphna’s hand, sending a small shower splashing onto the tablecloth, the broth staining it red.

“Papa, bitte,” she says, mopping the stain with a napkin.. “The children are fine.” The singsong speech is again evident, and her smile appears false and tight.

Around the table, the family busies themselves with sliding glances and furtive looks. The youngest lets loose a stifled giggle and struggles to recover. Daphna sends a glowering look in his direction. “Eli!” Her tone is enough to return composure to the boy.

The nagging worry in the pit of Ezra’s stomach increases. Despite Daphna’s assurance, he knows something is amiss. He leans forward in his chair and attempts to stop her movements, needing her to stay her task a moment and answer his questions. Brisk and business-like, she moves away from him, and continues her mission to serve dinner. He catches her glance, a brief one that sneaks from the corner of her eye and is subdued as quickly as it came. She smoothes her skirt and lights the candles, moving her arms in the calming ritual.

Ezra echoes her prayer, her peaceful resolve drawing him in and quieting his fear. He mumbles the words; familiar as breathing.

When finished, Daphna smiles at him, this time genuine and sweet. She takes the braided bread, breaks it and passes a section to him and one to her husband. Ezra knows from experience she will not begin eating before them.

After dinner, Marc and the boys clear the table and Daphna helps Ezra transfer to bed, settling him for the night. As she turns from the room, it comes back to him, all in a rush; the others are dust lying heavy and thick on the stone altars of death in a land distant and dreamlike.

On nights such as this, his tattooed arm itches, and his heart hammers empty and small in his chest.

He lays in bed, listening to the sounds of the family. His family: his granddaughter Daphna, and her children – Ezra’s great grandchildren. He smiles into the dark; his line will continue.

Ezra says the Kaddish and remembers the children, the ones left behind: Moshe, Max, Rachel, Lazar and Raisel. Raisel who was to be his wife, she of the black snapping eyes and bright laughing smile. At twelve, he stole her kiss and made a promise to cherish her. Always. Even after these many years, he remembers her breath warm on his face and her lips red from the wind and his kisses.

The words of the Kaddish, the prayer of remembrance, turn to a groggy whisper, and as he conjures Raisel’s face, first love of his life – sleep overtakes him.