Guest Post: An Afternoon on the Lawn Swing

Today's guest is one of the three brilliant minds behind the writing group I participate in most called The Red Dress Club. She blogs at a little spot on the internet she calls In These Small Moments. Please give Nichole a warm welcome.

I thought that this day would never come…I dreamed about it, prayed that one day you would just saunter through the door to tell me that it had all been a horrible and cruel mistake.  That you weren’t really dead and that you’d follow up with one of your fanciful stories that would help me to make sense of it all.

But you never did.

This afternoon with you is a gift, a dream.

You were taken from me before I could form memories of you…your laugh, your smile, the way you owned a room simply by walking into it, the scent of your hug, the way your love felt.

When I was ten, I longed for a single afternoon with you, to see the same clear blue eyes and golden hair that I saw when I looked in the mirror.  I longed to have you hold my hand and tell me that I was your sweet girl.  I stared at your weathered photograph so often that your face was more familiar to me than my own.

When I was twenty, I ached for you so badly.  I wanted to know what you thought, I wanted to hear about your thoughts about life.  By that time, I had been told that I carried with me your sense of humor, your laugh, and a touch of your rebellious nature.  I longed to identify with you and know that you were a part of me.  I would have given anything for you to encourage me to take risks and explore my options in life.

When I was thirty, I wished that you were here to tell me that you were proud of me and the things that I had accomplished.  I had outlived you by then, which was unfathomable.  You had always been older in my mind, but as my twenties slipped through my fingers, I came to realize that I had spent more days on this earth than you had.  No longer were you older, wiser.  Slowly, you became young…a man who hadn’t yet gathered all of the knowledge and experience that he needed.  You were impulsive, a kid, really, when you died.  I hated that I had outlived you by half a decade by then.

And now, as I approach forty, I long for your companionship.  I wish that I could look in your aged eyes and know that I am grounded in you.  There is so much inside of me that I can’t see in anyone else…I wish that I could see myself in you so that I could understand myself better.  I wish that I could hear your Maine accent that I’m told was thick and true.  I wish that when my phone rang, I could wonder for just a single moment if it was you.

I thought that as I got older, I would achieve a degree of peacefulness over your absence in my life, but I’m finding that I’m needing you more and more.

So, let’s sit on Grammy’s lawn swing and be still together.  Let me study you and just hear the sound of your voice.

Let me hear you tell me that you love me.

Tell me about the dreams you held in your heart.  What did you want most from your life? Had you even gotten that far?  Or did you still believe that this world had infinite space and time for you?

Why did you take so many risks, tempting fate so often and so eagerly that it eventually caught up with you?  With me.

Did you love me?  The way that I love my children?  Did my toddler giggles delight you?  Did my cries make your chest tighten?  Did you feel that you couldn’t live without me on this earth?

You were barely in your twenties when you died.

Tell me that I’m all that you’d ever dreamed I’d be.  Tell me that you’re proud.

Tell me that you’re sorry…sorry for leaving me.  Sorry for letting me know what being fatherless feels like.
And when you’re done…hold my hand and let me have these hours with you by my side.  Let me just listen to you breathe…let me feel your warmth.

Let me know what it feels like to have a father.

Just for the afternoon.

Today’s post is in response to a Red Dress Club prompt that invited us to describe an afternoon spent with someone who had died.  Naturally, I chose my father, who was taken from me when I was just two.

Red Writing Hood: Waiting

She stands at the shore, holding her flashlight high, her heart on her sleeve, just as she promised she would until he came home. He left on his brand new fishing ship months ago. She had only received one letter, just before the big storm. It was filled with his love for her so she would have no doubts. It reminded her that he would be home soon. 

Thunder rolled, lightning flashed, the waves came crashing like a wall. The winds blew out the beacon on the lighthouse. She didn’t fear for him; he knew the ocean. He would ride out this storm like he had any other and come sailing in when his cargo hold was filled. He would smile at her because she kept her promise.  
 

Lost at sea, the coast guard had said. Impossible, she thought. 

She was his beacon of light, standing strong on the shore, flashing her light so he can find his way home.

Critique welcome.

Red WRiting Hood:The Heat Is On

4, 10, 8, 6

"Are you sure you can handle this gig?" Bridget looks the girl over. "It's a seminar. There will be a lot of high demand people there. There will be no breaks. This is harder then anything you've done for me to date. Are you sure you can handle this, Elyssa?" Bridget had a renowned reputation for using seminars to weed out the good from the bad. Elyssa is determined to meet her challenge. She is young, determined, confident in her abilities. She takes a deep breath and nods her affirmation.

The seminar is much bigger then Elyssa expected. She did her duties, though, making sure each glass in her section stayed full and plates didn't clutter the tables. She stayed within eyesight of her tables, yet never hovered. She smiled though her feet were killing her. Four hours into the seminar, they take a break. Dinner will be served after the intermission, which means her legs will be doing more walking today then she has done since the 25 mile marathon she walked 5 years ago. She takes a deep sigh, a quick swipe at her hair to make sure it's all still in place. She rushes to the kitchen. 

The first set of platters are ready. She double checks the name plates to make sure she has the right food and heads to the table. She turns quickly with the tray on her hand, and falters. The tray is awkward and heavy, and she is unable to stop the platters from sliding off the tray and splattering the guests and table in front of her. Tears spring to her eyes as she begins to clean it up. 

A second pair of hands reaches out and helps her gather the broken dishes. She looks up and directly into the most beautiful grey eyes she has ever seen. She turns back to the mess and her mind starts to waiver. How did I miss seeing those eyes earlier today? I could drown in those eyes all day long. Where does he come from? Why is he here? So lost in her thoughts was she that she didn't even notice that she had cut herself. A long thin line of blood starting pouring out of her hand, adding new stains to the mess she was still trying to clean up.

"You should really get that looked at." His voice is unexpectedly deep yet soft. As he touched her shoulders, she felt little tremors run through her veins. He helped her up and led her into the kitchen. He led her through the kitchen, to the back where there was a little office. The simple nameplate on the door said "Kitchen Manager". He led her into the small office and sat her down on the small loveseat that took up the entire back wall of the office. He disappeared into a closet, and she heard him moving things around. He comes out with a first aid kit, and starts attending to her wound.

"I think you are going to need stitches for that one. It's pretty deep." his soft voice booms.

"I will get it checked out later. I have to get back out there. Thanks for your help." She started to brush past him and he stopped her. She turned to ask him why he was stopping her and found herself looking into his eyes again. They just stood there, frozen, looking at each other. Is he going to kiss me? she thinks. He finally released her wrist and she left the room.

She returned to the seminar to find that the mess had been cleaned up and her tables had been served. She begins gathering the empty dishes when the fire alarm sounds. She sees smoke coming from the kitchen and hears the seminar director tell everyone to start working their way to the emergency exit closest to their table.

As the smoke gets thicker, people begin panicking. They are running for the doors, causing more panic as they go. Those who are getting left behind are beginning to cough as the smoke overtakes the room. Elyssa takes a look around and sees several people in distress. She is almost out the door, but she turns back. Every instinct in her body tells her she can't leave those people in there.

"Go on! Get moving. I'll take care of these people." His voice is soothing and calm.

"No, I can help. My dad was a firefighter. We need to get these people out of here. There's too many for one person."

The fire breaks out of the kitchen. More panic ensues, and the overhead sprinklers finally kick on. Elyssa starts grabbing tablecloths and wrapping people in them, telling them to run for the exit. Slowly the room begins to clear of people as the fire continues. Finally, the smoke is too thick to see through and she can no longer find the exits. She covers herself with the wet tablecloth and swallows.

*         *         *

"So do you think you can handle this gig? There will be a lot of people there. This will be the hardest thing you've done to date. Are you sure you can handle it?" His grey eyes pierce through her skin. She looks down at the ring on her finger, her white dress, and all the family and friends gathered around.

"This? This is a piece of cake." she whispers as the priest pronounces them husband and wife.