Gone

Her hair floated over her shoulder like water strider bugs over a pond; Playfully dancing across her cooling skin. The sunset cast a warm hue across the rolling hills of golden perennial long grass, spread before her for as far as the eye could see. The wind blew past her nose and her face turned towards the direction of the fog rolling in. She drew a smile and sat back in her seat.

The pick-up truck was old and dusty. Dings and various patches of rust dulled the silver and navy blue paint. She drove slowly over the dirt path, littered with large stones and half-buried boulders. A worn-down building sat gently at the top of the hill. Tarps tied over one side of the open-aired barn loosened from their ropes and flapped in the breeze.

She was in no hurry to reach the top. At this time of day, it felt like everything lingered a little longer; the breeze, the grass, moving in waves like water, the cows down the hill, chomping silently in the distance. She took a deep breath. The scent of wild fennel and warmed dirt brought a flood of casual memories back to her; The memory of the first time she was told what fennel smelled like, the memory of countless summer evenings spent on the top of this hill, watching the day’s end around family, the memory of riding tractors down the backside of this hill, to the pig’s pen for feeding.

Tonight, of all nights, she thought she’d be more focused on the prominent memories from her life. The ones that took her breath away. The moments of firsts. The giddy memories of meeting her husband for the first time, of barn yard dances, of campfires with her cousins. But they surprisingly, and yet happily, were instead a collection of all those normal, dare I say mundane, moments that come together to complete a life.

But of course, she thought. Life isn’t just the destination those wild, contrived, even explosive memories took her too. They were all the little moments conceived in preparing for the date, readying yourself with conversation starters, reading books in the park or planting down at the breakfast table with family on Sundays. Why hadn’t she thought to share that with her family before she left? That even the small moments carried the weight of a life on them.

 

««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««

 

She stretched her arm out of the truck window and let it bounce along with the drive, fingers feeling the air. She remembered the first pig roast her family had on the farm. There was an earthiness to the smell of the roast she hadn’t expected when they planned the event out and invited half the town to join them there. She was uneasy around the hog, stretched out over a thick piece of metal. She hadn’t eaten meat in 3 years. It had been her idea to move out of the city and take on a farm with her family, but here, the animal sat staring at her. Its mouth forced wide open. It’s legs dangling stiffly under its belly. For a moment, she wondered whether this had been a good idea after all.

That was when she looked up and saw her father. His dark green plaid button up and dusty trousers played the part well of ranch owner, but he wore his faded leather house shoes on his feet. She giggled as she watched him sipping beer with a neighbor and talking ranch politics in his slippers. She turned her face into her shoulder, hoping to stifle a laugh.

That’s when her eyes landed on her mother, surrounded by the town’s children. She had a wooden box in her lap, squeezing it between her knees and cranking a handle over the top of it. Children as young as two and as old as nine, watched intently as mom gave a lesson in churning ice cream. The cubes of ice inside grinding and clapping together as her hand went round and round.

She stood up and walked over to her mother, who looked up at her and smiled. The sun played in the golden blonde curls of mom’s hair, and she remembered her mother in that moment as an angel. “Would you like to be my first taste tester,” mom asked. Eager faces turned to her but not one child protested. She took the spoon out of mom’s hand and swallowed a chilly lump of vanilla bean ice cream. It was pure heaven; delicious in ways that, looking back on it, she could not express. And there, mom just sat, watching her and smiling. “Who wants some?” Hands threw themselves towards her mother as she scooped creamy globs into their bowls.

She turned back around and looked over the crowd of people gathered in the fields, vegetable garden and under the barn roof.  She would never forget this moment as the start of, what felt like, her life.

 

««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««

 

The days after the pig roast were tough. Farms were a lot of work and the days were long and hot. The grit from sweat and mud layered over her skin like an unwelcome blanket. The scent of fertilizer filled the air from dawn till dusk. They had chased the chickens each night, back into the hen house, for months on end. It wasn’t until one neighbor caught the whole family running wildly around in a field of scattering birds, that they learned that roosting birds find their way back home naturally at sunset. All you had left to do was latch the door before dinner.

Back in the truck, she giggled over the memory. How our need to control so many aspects of our lives actually just put a lot more work on ourselves. Life has a way of figuring itself out if we just allowed it to be.

 

««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««

 

After their initial first year on the farm, those busy days seemed to relax a bit more. Maybe, it was the fact that life now had a fluid routine. Maybe, it was because the work had built them all up to be lean and athletic. Either way, each day become more rewarding. Each day brought more reason to laugh, to cry, to hold one another, to see a moment as it really was and appreciate life just as it is.

There were several houses on the farm. She could see them fading behind her as the sun began to set off in the distance. She stared at them for a moment, in the truck’s side mirror. The main house sat behind a towering garden of colored flowers and herbs; It’s Victorian peaks reaching up to the sky in a valley of grass and gravel.

Her home was somewhat more meager and cozy than the other. A one-story shack some two hundred feet from the main house, that glowed every night from the fairy lights strung around her front porch. She lived in that small space with her husband. They had married young, at only twenty-two.

When she had told her husband, only 6 months after they married, that she planned to take on a farm with her parents, he didn’t bat an eye. He accompanied her every weekend to the library, where they sat and read everything they could on managing a farm. Just like with children however, nothing could prepare them for the journey from city life to a rural outpost. But her husband never said a negative word. Not when he was forced to get up to tend to the cattle at 4am. Not when the heat cranked up to 100 degrees and the nights never cooled, and she would lay awake dreaming of the air-conditioned condo they had left behind. He blazed through each day, each month, each year on that farm as if he was made for it. As if this was his life’s purpose. At the end of each day, they would drink peach iced tea to the sound of crickets, while resting upon the rails and steps of the old, unsteady porch.

Together, they had come to appreciate the cycle of life on the farm. In the warm months, calves clamored up the hillsides, chasing after their mothers. Squealing piglets fled from their mother’s heavy feet as the sow sought shade or water. Heat lamps projected orange hues over fuzzy chicks in a once storage shed. But they also saw steers led into trailers and taken to the butcher, or a herd of cattle noisily circling a calf killed by a coyote overnight.

Not every moment drew a smile, but every moment taught a lesson. Being on the farm was an experience that proved every action we take in life has a ripple effect. Because of this, life seemed to mean a bit more. Their days were deliberate but kind, easy but tough.

 

««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««

 

As she neared the top of the hill, she could see her husband seated on a hay bale. His white Western straw hat, loosely sitting on his head as he peered out into the distance. He turned and smiled as he saw the truck approach.

The truck door creaked open and closed with a loud slap. Even that sound reminded her of how beautiful life had become for them here. Her faded brown boots hit heavy on the path as she walked up to him. He stood up to greet her and they paused before taking each other in their arms. After a moments gaze, they lingered over a soft kiss. “Do you remember when I used to meet you down by the creek, in the forest, to make-out when we first moved out here,” he said. She smiled. “I do.” There was more to be said but neither of them spoke. They just sat down as she folded into his arms.

The air kicked up a coolness that gave her goosebumps but she didn’t move. Her husband has like a furnace. Day and night, no matter the temperature, he had a fire she was drawn to like a fly. When she had initially gotten sick, her first inclination had been to sell off all their things and begin traveling, but something about that idea felt like all that excitement would just take away from the fire she had in him. Instead, her and her family had decided to take on this farm.

Now, years later, they sat arm and arm, overseeing the beauty of what they had created. A billion words crossed her lips and died out before she could speak them. A thousand thoughts hid behind the lids of her eyes. Even moving felt like too much of a distraction from the oranges and reds turning softly into hues of blue and purple.

No one said a word until just when the last rays of sun began to take their leave. He stirred behind her and lifted them up to look into each other’s eyes. “It’s time for me to go,” he said. A lump grew in her throat and she reached around him, burying her face in his chest. A deep breath relaxed her muscles as the scent of his musk entered her nose. She pulled back. “I understand.”

“Take me with you,” he wanted to plead. She could see it in his eyes, but he never asked. Instead, he turned around and walked back down the hill, towards their house.

She sat back down on the hay bale. A star became visible as the night sky began to darken. She starred into the twinkling beyond. She had no wonder as to what would happen next. She felt a calm wash over her; A happiness so lovely and sweet, she closed her eyes to its embrace. In an instant, her eyes flooded with white and she slipped into sleep. The memory of the farm etched deep inside her mind. Her family huddled around a roaring campfire. Her husband, staring straight into its wild flames.

And then, she was gone.

Write

I am a writer.

That’s actually really hard for me to type out, especially on a day like today, but I guess it’s relatively true. Last year the CEO of a creative agency discovered this modest talent of mine and put it to work. Oddly enough, my talent with the written word also shown a light on my abilities as a brand strategist. I won’t bore you with details of either position but I will say that I was very simply hired, from then on, to work as a freelance copywriter and brand strategist with their organization.

I’ve been writing since I was a child, which is sometimes surprising to me. When I was in school, I excelled at mathematics. Despite loving to read, I almost never read the books asked of me in school. I was terrible with grammar and spelling and I loved run-on thoughts so, naturally, I assumed English wasn’t for me. I focused on pushing myself in my accelerated math classes and never looked back (well, of course, until now).

In the last handful of years, my memory has deteriorated. My family likes to share stories of rebellious moments in my youth or funny adventures we shared and I never remember any of them. Like those memories, I feel like every math formula I ever learned has gone and left me. Countless, sometimes tear-drenched hours of math study right down the tube. But you know what memory hasn’t ever left me? The memory of writing my first story.

I was in 6^th grade when my teacher asked us to write a descriptive fictional piece. To this day, I can smell the candles lit on the fireplace mantel and feel the red velvet fabric of the drapes decorating the study. My story was a murder mystery with every moment absorbed by the description of random, sitting objects and how it played into the tragic events of that murderous evening.

When I turned my story into my teacher (name, forgotten), she was so taken aback by it that she pulled me from another class just to read it aloud to a group of 8^th grade students. At 32 years of age, that would be an accomplishment to text home about but at 11 years old, I was mortified. The look in each of those threatening 8^th graders’ eyes was a miserable reminder that I was not only unpopular but now sorely disliked. If I had as much as an inkling that I enjoyed writing, it dissipated in that one single moment.

Fast forward a few decades. Now I write for a living and, like everything else in my life, I have dumped a lot of passion, research and straight up work behind it. Before getting paid to write pieces, I wrote everywhere. In magazines from the seat-back pockets on planes, on coasters left behind in restaurants across the country, in notebooks I carried around in my purse and on several blog-styled websites. I used to grab a seat at bars packed with guests on a Friday night, just a hardback notebook and pencil in hand. I loved letting my mind explore the chaos around me, picking and pulling ideas and narratives from the cast of players at my disposal. My writings were imaginative though unfocused –but they were my expressions with only myself to play judge. Now, I submit pieces that are immediately scrutinized, and will go on being scrutinized until the project is complete.

Here, think of when you were six and you crafted a drawing for mom and dad. Think about getting home and happily pulling it out of your backpack, raising it up to display thick red lines and yellow squiggles. Then think about your parents grabbing the paper from your hands and telling you everything that was wrong with it. Anyone doing anything in a creative field (graphic design, advertising, writing, etc.) will tell you, this is always and forever how it feels to have someone critique a piece of your work. Our type of work comes straight from the heart and the talent of our own hand and imagination.

This all being said, I can deal with that. I can. It sucks. It’s hard. It even hurts sometimes, but its work. It’s business. You live, you learn or you deal. I can do that. I’m strong enough for that. But what if I added, now mom and dad tell you that the image you drew of mom walking the family dog was really an octopus riding a donkey. You’d be like “Wait, what? No. Excuse me, no. No, that’s mom. I mean, maybe mom doesn’t look EXACTLY like that, but that’s mom. I can do some work to make it look even more like mom, but that’s mom. Plain and simple.” Except it’s not. They aren’t backing down. It’s an octopus and they don’t want an octopus riding a donkey on the fridge. “Go back and draw another picture of mom,” they say. “And this time, make sure it looks like mom.” Like….whhhaaaaaat? I did this a few times. I did this song and dance with folks over their idea of a concept and mine, formulated through the study of business dynamics. In the end, they are paying me to do work and the client should leave happy but also, it should be correct and do right by your business. Right? I mean, if you decide you have a wholly different definition and view of mom (or octopuses, for that matter) than what can be found in, say, a dictionary or a photo album, that doesn’t make it the right version. Right?

My mother-in-law said something to me a few weeks ago that has been reverberating through my mind ever since. She said “you cannot force someone to have integrity. You can only have integrity yourself.” That’s true. Too true. Frustratingly true. I know that. I am seeking to honor that statement but I find it a difficult concept for me to grasp, knowing full well that it would assist me in being able move forward in my day, my project and probably my position. I put a lot of work into what I do. I am constantly researching business and topics that resonate within my field, stretching my knowledge with each word. So why should I not expect that of others? If I put countless hours into the continuation of my studies, pushing to do and be better and to deliver more, why must I then except being devalued by someone who knows less? It is infuriating. Obviously.

Well, Charlie, self-righteous much? Totally. Though I have played the backup singer for a while now. It was actually my little sister who recently reminded me that value, especially for women, comes from demanding you be valued. So, I have. I am. Or, at least, I’m trying. To feel like I can demand I be treated with value though, means I also need to add to my value. Now, I cannot just suggest where I see flaws in the design, I can cite them with tangible examples. But to what point? And at what price? But more on that next time. Right now, I need to find my grit, push past the pain and draw mom and dad a pretty picture.

The Masochist.

She sat in a sea of madness. People surrounded her and the noise of it engulfed her. She felt like a butterfly caught in the thorns of a rose bush. “Take me away from here,” she thought as she looked up at him. He may have been too busy to notice but she knew he was probably asking the same of her. And it wasn’t just the noise that persuaded him; she had enticed him with her lips, her smile… the breath that filled her chest, expanded her ribcage and pushed against her shirt, her unintentional hand upon his shoulder, the fear from which tossed about in his stomach, making him twitch.

Her gaze followed him around the crowded bar. Her thoughts became filled with the memory of his kiss and the tilt her heart had made. But the moment she realized her growing smile and her gaze that hadn’t torn away yet, a darkness fell over her. She sighed a painful sigh, and looked down at her empty hands wondering whether she should just chug her glass of wine or maybe leave it. How could she stay here, where the fear buried a tomb inside her that conquered every muscle, every emotion?

Love was not a word she was used to. Don’t mistake her; her hippy heart loved everyone freely, evenly and without condition… unless romance was involved. There her heart remained sealed. Dating, flirtation and the openness of a seeded friendship came easy to her but finding herself standing before a person who showed true interest in her was like standing before a rope bridge that swayed over a fiery pit of lava. Asking for entry into her soul was banned; the traitorous act forbidden and punished. Of all those that had come before him, only one stood the test of time and even he eventually crumbled under the weight of her words and emotions, never to be heard from again.

She sighed. There he was, a glimmer of hope shining against her black heart. A vision of humor and restrain. Of shared experiences, choices, hopes and dreams; the memories of which flooded her, as did the concern. She was wise enough now to know that the cold stone she felt her innards begin to turn to meant only more self-destruction for the future, ripping away all hope this dazzling man before her stood at happiness with the woman he so clearly loved.

↔

In the mirror before him, he saw her. Her reflection sat over his shoulder as he poured out another beer for another anxiously awaiting patron. She starred into her wine glass and back into her empty hands and he knew she was searching for something. He’d seen it far too many times: the manifestation of an inner struggle.

The thought of her struggling cast an air of defensive anger over him. He wished to grab her in that moment and sink his lips into her hair as he caressed her, hushing the voices controlling within. But he didn’t… he couldn’t, and not just because he had a bar to run but because he was sure he was the reason she looked so scared. “How could she,” he asked himself, “how could she believe I’d want anything but the best for her? How can she not see how much life she’s given me?”

He wasn’t a tall man or a small man. A fat man or thin man. He was fairly average… until he spoke. The words that poured from his lips were always witty, insightful and intelligent. He was compassionate, caring… deserving. It had been years since he had felt the tug of emotions at the strings of his heart. It had been years since he’d even wanted to let someone in. Night after night he came to this bar to pour drinks for the lonely, confused and unsatisfied. Their weight had worn on him just as the countless nights in bed with strangers had. His days had become routine as each night he watched the eyes from past lovers silently beg him back to bed. But now it was her eyes that he watched and his that begged her back, back from the distance that grew between them as she sat at the bar sipping her wine.

In the mirror he watched as a man approached her and she obligingly laughed as he attempted to sway her and her unsteady, drunken mind with him to the back booth in the bar.

↔

“Why did I even come here?” she said to herself, as her thoughts began to blur from the alcohol. She considered whether or not she should have declined to follow the man that had approached her back to his booth. But it was too late now.

The bartender called last call and she shrunk down in her seat. Another night wasted, dreaming of moments that didn’t happen, words left unsaid and kisses that never came. But of course they didn’t. This bar was full of the women he had taken home to bed one night and never called for again. She could see them cradling the bar with their breasts, hoping to be noticed. Each glance up at their curled hair and deep v-necks made her further regret the tattered jeans and ripped sweater she had thrown on before the long walk here. Looking down at herself, she could see just how much of a mess she was.

Suddenly, a heavy glass of water appeared before her and a palm was cradling her chin, lifting her face up till their eyes met. “You ok, doll? Can I take you home? It’s too cold and too long a walk.”

“I could’t do that to you. No, I’ll be fine. I’ve managed before,” and she took a sip of icy water.

“Wouldn’t be any trouble. In fact, you’d be doing me a favor; taking a load off my conscience  knowing you got back safe.”

She breathed in deep and nodded, trying to hide her smile. An exasperated snort came from down the bar, then chair after chair pushed back as their occupants unhappily departed leaving just her and just him.

↔

His car smelled of him with a masking of cologne. Usually, by the time he was pulling on the handle of the door on his side of the car, she’d be sinking into the comfort of finally being alone with a friend. But not anymore. Not when two nights ago, he had allowed his intoxicated mind to blurt out that he loved her while they sat drinking whiskey on his front porch, lit under a cloudless sky. Now she had to be careful. So when he opened the door on his side, she turned to stare out the window, questioning herself again as to why she came here when she knew she should have stayed away.

They drove down the dark, empty streets in silence. As they approached her house, he almost couldn’t help his hand from reaching out to take hers. Almost. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught his relenting and something inside her wished to rush her hand into his as well… but she didn’t.

They pulled up to her door and he put the car in park. “Thank you for the ride home,” she said.

“Absolutely. Anytime…… could I possibly help you inside?”

“No, thank you. I’ll manage,” she said.

A moment of silence hung between them before she pulled the handle to get out. “Well, goodnight then.”

“Goodnight,” he said. As she turned toward the door to go inside, he pulled his car away wishing there was more to say… more to do. The desperation in his heart hurdled wicked, teasing thoughts at him and he shook his head hoping to release them from their prison inside. When, suddenly, he heard her…..

“DAVID!” the voice shouted. He looked into his rear view mirror to see her standing in the street behind him. He hit the brakes and it felt like fire and light and relief were filling him up, all at once! He felt paralyzed by it as she entered the car from the passengers side and smiled. “I forgot my purse,” she said and with that, was stepping back from the car again.

“Goodnight Grace,” he murmured. As she shut the door, David slowly drove off.

The Old Man & The Bartender

He stood behind the bar, smiling, always engaging; roaming the corridor that corralled him. Drinks poured perfectly and flowed into the hands of those anxiously waiting. He was infectious, endearing, without having to say a word.

An older man standing nearby pulled the seat out next to me and sat down. He leaned over and in a volume just above a whisper, he said “The best part about thinking your life is horrible is knowing it can only get better from here.”

“Or maybe you just hope it will.” I replied.

The man then turned to look at me and I to him. A beautiful, wrinkled smile took over his face as he leaned even closer. “Life is sweet, my dear. Let it take care of you.” And with that he turned back to facing the bar and ordered another drink from the infectiously happy bartender. I slowly began to turn back to the bar as well, catching my reflection in the heavy mirror suspended behind stacks of empty pint glasses. I repeated the strangers last words to myself, in my head; “Life is sweet, my dear.” The words hung between my ears and pushed against the inside of my lips as if they wished to be released so they could be better recognized. “Let it take care of you.”

At the side of my reflection, the old man spoke to someone beside him. Even from a distance, I could make out the wrinkles time had pressed into his otherwise smooth skin and it dawned on me that this man has seen many moonlit nights snubbed out by sunny mornings. He probably has kids, grandkids… maybe even a wife. He’s most likely felt the satisfaction of a long, laborious day of work that wore down his knees or calloused his hands. He’d been alive to see the rise and fall of countries, governments, and human invention. He’d been hugged, loved and encountered loss. I didn’t really know what this man had been through nor could I begin to conceive of all he had so instead I turned my thoughts to how I planned to incorporate this new token of experience-driven wisdom into my life.

Another smile had begun to creep over me just as the bartender walked by. “And what are you so happy about,” he questioned.

“Falling in love.” I replied.

“Oh, really now? And who is the lucky man?” he asked.

“Life.” I revealed.