Fiction Writer

A fiction writer: that’s what she thought she’d be. 
The ideas for stories came so easily, and she certainly had a way to turn a phrase —
Her mother had said so.
It was the most treasured compliment she had ever received from her.

But what she had thought would, hadn’t played out. 
She wrote, of course — it came naturally.
And because she was well-read, and the words came easily and eloquently,
the promotions — and the raises — came frequently, as well. 

Bills that were once paid over time were now paid, in full, upon receipt. 
The children were put through private schools, then college, graduating — per the agreement — with honors, job offers and debt free.

The mortgage was burned on a cold January night
in the sixth year of the fifteen-year note.
Into the late hours of that night they shared a bottle of wine with repeated toasts for staying with the plan. 

Work continued. 
It became tougher as the industry compressed and she was given responsibilities she knew nothing about; but she’d learn. 
Her resolve to succeed hardened her exterior; everything felt critical. 

And still she wrote.

For others
she wrote speeches and keynote addresses. Letters from the Chair.
Strategic plans and op-eds. Policy briefs.  And in an odd and somber turn, an obituary for a woman she didn’t know, but whose family didn’t have the words.

But her words flowed like water
and when the industry hit tough times and layoffs came, she was spared. 
She was their voice, supplying the words to offer reassurance, reasoning and inspiration for others to push on. 

Still, the memories began to knock.
She thought she’d be a fiction writer.
There was a trilogy to be told. 
The third book would be a ghost story of sorts; not frightening or far-fetched. 

A story of spirits, here and there; in the next place — existing together as she had for so long now since her grandfather and mother and too many others had passed.  

But time had played its usual trick. 
And though she wasn’t old, the fiction began to fog. 
Until finally, decades on
the fog began to lift.

It wasn’t fiction after all. 

It was the memories and quiet shadows of her own childhood’s spirit who’d been encouraging her all along. 

And there, in her mind — she came upon herself,

just a little girl, before any of the trials, celebrations or heartaches that come naturally with living a full, good life. 

She was in a garden warm with a kaleidoscope of colors and fragrance, safety and contentment and — a life full of dreams waiting to be lived. 

She approached softly, pausing only a moment before gently sitting down

next to herself.

She smiled in recognition at the little girl’s sundress with floral smocking and the sandals with the yellow daisy appliqué. 

Moments and years passed.

The sun warmed her shoulders and, high above, two cotton ball clouds sailed on. 
She turned to herself then,
her childhood’s soft blonde hair framing her cheeks, bright from the sun. 

The little girl looked up, crystal blue eyes widening with recognition.
She reached for her hand. 

A bee buzzed by lazily and lighted on a deep and rich row of marigolds in full bloom — oranges, reds and yellows, just like the daisies on her sandals. 

They held on, her older self swallowing the emotions the child had stirred.

A cicada began its call and for several moments they just listened, until finally she drew courage to ask,

“Did I — make you proud?”

The little girl’s eyes widened again, clearly surprised by the question.
“Oh yes,” she nodded. “You did!”  But then she paused, and finally “It’s just —”

She waited, but seeing the child’s hesitation, encouraged her on. 
They had no secrets.
And then, with a frankness she knew so well —

“You used to always smile.”

She flinched, and in that moment, her child-self was gone. 

A fiction writer.
That’s what she’d always thought she’d be. 

But that was long before the story had played out
and the realization had become clear
that there was so much to tell and recall of her own life;
the moments that shaped her that had, in turn, shaped others. 

This life.

Ghost stories
Perhaps – 
of a time that had passed but a time, too, she could resurrect
to recount where the smiles had come from, where some had gone and —
if she allowed those memories to come as easily as her words —
how they would find their way back.

(c) 2017