My Empty Bottle Shines a Blue Brilliant Light

“Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all the others were making ships.”~Charles Simic

“Keep at it, you can write. Don’t let anyone talk you out of it.” I smiled and looked down at my coffee cup, but I knew my ex. was right. It isn’t paying the bills. Just hard to find work in this economy. I sipped my coffee and looked out the big bay window. The view was spectacular, enough to make me forget my financial woes. An old light house, sitting alone a few yards away on Situate point captured my attention. Like me, it was looking out at my friend’s back yard, the wide Atlantic Ocean.  Its blinking light shot out like a spot light focused on a stage built of sapphire blue. I was  admiring the sparkling hues that were glowing along the ocean’s edge, when my friend returned from his kitchen. I recognized the colors that painted the early evening sky and knew it must be time to head back. Even though I wanted to linger by my friend’s bay window, I gathered my things and hugged him goodbye. Stepping out into the night air, the January wind made my body jolt, from the sudden drop of temperature.  I quickened my pace, wanting the warmth of my car, when I noticed the blue blinking light again, stretching it’s reach out over the sea, like a mother’s arm beckoning it’s child to come home. Despite the chill, I stopped to watch the light’s circular movement as it streamed over the tops of curled white wave crests. The night was quiet, only the rolling ocean hitting the jetty and the hum of the light house motor could be heard. I love the sound of the sea, but it made me think of a far away place that I had not seen since my divorce.

Lupins on PEI

The sound of ocean reminded me of the island and how much I missed it.  I used to watch the blue blinking light shine on Cove Head Bay at night. It was so beautiful. But he got the summer cottage after the divorce.

There’s something about a lighthouse. They stand alone,weather every storm, support others without looking for any accolades. A strong beacon shining it’s light to guide those lost home, and giving hope through the storm’s raging. Since I was a small child, light houses have fascinated me. So I stood still watching the light, and decided not to think about the chill in the air. Instead, I thought about the Island and a book I had read my last summer there.

I used to sit by myself on the deck of the cottage and stare out at Stanhope light. The lighthouse across the bay was alot like me; lonely but strong. I’d sit on the deck and watch Stanhope, wishing I had a different life or at least hadn’t married the controlling , mean man who sat only a few yards away inside the cottage. I’d wonder what it would be like to be married to a husband who loved me, but like the light house, I’d never know and just stared out at the water for hours at a time.

My last summer on PEI, I read a book by Virginia Wolf, called To The Light House. There was a scene after a dinner party where Mrs. Ramsey and her awful husband made small talk. He wanted her to tell him she loved him, but she just couldn’t do it.  She tried to get out of it by smiling and changing the topic. I remember thinking we had a few things in common; unhappy marriages and a summer home by a lighthouse across the bay. I understood Virginia Wolf’s message. Nothing stays the same with the passage of time. Her character believed a marriage could either make or break a man. Well in my case….I was too stubborn, maybe too scared to look at my brokenness. But even if I tried to deny it, I always knew it was there. When I finished the book, I remember thinking I didn’t want to end up cold and bitter like Mrs. Ramsey. I felt it would be better to be like Lily Biscoe, another character, who used art to heal her brokenness and make sense out out of buried memories.

Lily Biscoe viewed her artist’s brush as “the only dependable thing in a world of strife, ruin, chaos.” Lily changed in the story with the passage of time, and I knew I was changing too. Time does that. She found her voice and that gave me hope I would one day find mine. Lily, the artist, “ traps the grain of sand while it is still dry before the wave of life strikes it.” She recorded her painful past using her artist’s brush and once her visions sat still on cavas, time no longer threatened her, but made sense. Maybe my artist brush is the keyboard and that’s where I’m struggling to find my voice.

I love Hemingway’s quote; “There’s nothing to writing, all you do is sit down at the typewriter and bleed.” If that’s true, then I really ‘hemorrhaged’ during my marriage. Thankfully, that chapter is over. No more living in fear, being ridiculed, intimidated or bullied. I’m free now, just feeling a little lost, at the moment. I wish that bright beautiful light would shine on me and tell me where to look for my safe harbor. Where is home?

“It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.”~Virginia Wolf

After that thought , I felt a warm tear roll down my cold cheek and it made me realize that time was slipping away. I had to retreat from the cold and get home to my kids. During the car ride, I thought about Stanhope Light. Maybe I was becoming more like a light house everyday. Recognizing this as a real possibility gave me a warm, happy feeling. Like Stanhope, I weathered many storms but I didn’t break. I came out a little scratched but I’m still standing tall and proud. Maybe my friend is right. “Keep at it, you can write.” No one has noticed my shining yet, but one day I’ll shine so brightly, they’ll have to see. I know I have a book inside me and I hear it shouting to get out. Just like Lily, I need to make peace with Father Time.

Excerpt taken from the classic: To the Lighthouse by Virginia Wolf: “-She could see it all so clearly, so commandingly, when she looked; it was when she took her brush in the hand that the whole thing changed. It was in that moment’s flight between the picture and her canvas that the demons set on her who often brought her to the verge of tears and made this passage from conception to work as dreadful as any down a dark passage for a child. Such she often found herself-struggling against terrific odds to maintain her courage; to say: ‘But this is what I see’…”

“We are told to let our light shine, and if it does, we won’t need to tell anybody it does, Lighthouses don’t fire cannons to call attention to their shining- they just shine.” ~Dwight L. Moody

More entries of the journal can be found by clicking; Just Thinking

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Why I write…

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The writer’s brush takes the reader on a carpet ride. The personal world of the writer is exposed. His ideas, thoughts, imagination; all are translated, using ink, a mouse or a key pad.

Words come together and link. This link forms the umbilical cord that connects these two strangers closely; the writer and the page, the giver, and the receiver. A cherished bond, a partnership, that is nurtured, tested, sometimes recycled, and always changing.

It’s the delivery of words, the birth of a book, a link created using the writer’s special brush. It is the sensitive, detailed stroke that breathes life onto paper. This life will create story, a work of art that will be loved or ridiculed. The painter cannot predict how his art will be received, but his desire to paint is the intense force that drives him.

He paints for himself, not for others. The possibility of rejection will not interfere with his creativity, his energy, the juices that flow, his words that spill over from his morning cup of coffee onto canvas. Sticking to canvas, these words feed the writer’s soul.

The God given gift, his talent, weighs heavily and should not be wasted but revered. The opinions of others do not really matter. No one can kill his passion for writing. It is too strong.

The paper or canvas becomes the author’s tool, the main platform used to scribble on, crumple up, or toss into a barrel. The barrel that waits, under the writer’s desk, receives all the rejections; the ideas tagged, “not good enough”.

The canvas, repeatedly scrutinized by the painter, decides not to be overly sensitive or cast judgment. He is loyal, a true friend, who waits patiently for his partner’s acceptance, knowing one day he will be appreciated for his uniqueness, tone, and voice.

After days, months, years of work, the artist will recognize the value of his art. It is never published, but buried  under manuscripts tagged “not good enough,” located in the writer’s top desk drawer. It becomes a forgotten treasure.

The painter’s hard work, dedication, and diligence will one day pay off. The love nurtured between the two strangers will slowly uncover a mystery, the hidden beauty of word.

Unbroken pages, painted images, telling a story speckled with words, not oil paint. This union will evolve into a finished story that creates light. It will shine brightly and decorate the writer’s canvas. All the while, he will fervently pray, that his light connects readers, new links. These links are the boats guided by the bright lighthouse. They are book lovers searching and looking for rest at the next harbor.

This brilliant light yearns to be discovered. He dreams, he hopes, he wishes for the day, when book lovers search for him, because his light is original. He has faith that his readers, his loyal friends, his fleet will sail in, finding that what he has to offer is too good to put down. They will keep coming back, loving the warmth that comes from his light.

As he prays for new connections, new links, he understands his new place in the world. Now, he is no longer the receiver, but the giver. His readers, his fleet will receive.

With this realization the writer pauses. The umbilical cord has been cut. This predictable separation was inevitable. It was their destiny, after all.

They have no choice but to leave the ballroom and put away their dancing shoes. Their intimate, fast moving tango has come to an end.

Sweet memories, both frustrating and exhilarating, shared between best friends, will always bring a smile to the painter of words. But it will not keep the painter’s creativity burning. The painter is already making plans to find  wood for building a new  fire. The writer is a fickle friend. He will not stay.

He is too restless. His thirst is unquenchable. Tapping keys, moving a mouse, or jotting words onto paper, the process of creating the tapestry, the canvas that shares his message, the story, the book, his creation brings him pure joy. This joy can only be understood by other painters, other artists, other lovers of words.

I write for the pure joy it brings me.

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December 28, 2009

8 am

Dear Diary

I couldn’t sleep this morning, too many financial worries. Unemployed for 6 months now and I still can’t believe MA won’t let me collect unemployment. They tell me I don’t qualify because I taught at a Catholic School and to make matters worse; the Catholic school doesn’t have a fund to help the laid off teachers.

“Feed a family or decorate an alter?”

I question Father George, my last boss. What are his  priorities? Should he preach ”Love your neighbor; Do for others?”  Is he a hypocrite? You decide.

No financial assistance is provided to the first teacher they hired (me) and the first teacher to be laid off (me). The reason for letting me go: enrollment went down. They had a budget crisis. I was paid the highest salary in the building and with no teacher’s union they could let me go.

Of course it didn’t help there was no love lost with the principal and me. She was a real broom rider; you could hear the theme song  from Oz play when she walked the halls; a real witch.

When the Accredidation team interviewed us “confidentially”, I was honest (sometimes I wish that wasn’t part of who I am!) They asked me privately how I would rate the broom rider’s performance. I spoke the truth. I told them what she did: how she made teachers in the building cry, how she hollered at kids and made them cry. It was as if she came from the dinosaur age of teaching with the nuns!; I told them how she lied to parents and gave examples (she said there were 2 sixth grades/ there was one; she told them we were all trained in Wilson Reading/ only 2 were; She told them all the kids received spanish/ grades k-4 didn’t at the time ; she told them students had 45 min. of technology/ they only had 15, etc, etc).

I also mentioned 13 teachers went to Fr. George to complain about her and that 4 others went to the Dioce to complain to the Superintendent.

What did the Superintendent do?

Nothing. He said Fr. George was in charge.

What did Fr. George do?

Nothing. He looked the other way, just like Cardinal Law.

What was the result?

Teachers left, parents pulled their kids out, the entire staff would look for jobs each spring. We’d cross our fingers this would be the year for her to retire.

Anyway, the witch was untouchable. She did things that would get her fired in the public schools, but got away with it here. How do I know? I taught in public school for 10 years. Catholic Schools get away with a lot because there is no teacher’s union. I’ll never work for a Catholic School again.

But to get back to my initial question: “Feed a family or decorate an alter?”

Father George never gave me a dime, but boy, does his alter look beautiful! Hundreds of dollars he spent on flowers. Not one penny to help me feed my kids. Hypocrite? You decide.

So what do I do now?

I should have been an actress, making millions for “pretending”, playing a character in someone elses story. Nope, I became a teacher. Now I’m trying to become a writer. Am I crazy ? I don’t know where it is leading me, but I want to travel it and it’s a choice that I’ve made. I’m following my heart and chasing my dream….

I started writing before my kids got up this morning. The most beautiful light shined into my office window. It made me stop what I was doing, and led me to the window pane, where I got to witness the most extraordinary sunrise. Just looking at the tree shadows and all the different colors cast on my front lawn warmed me up inside.

Pretty funny isn’t it? I’m a starving writer at the moment, but there are still riches to find. Take this morning’s sunrise. It made me feel rich.

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN by Robert Frost
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Someday I’ll see this road I’m on, less traveled, is the right road for this writer to follow.
Until tomorrow dear friend…..

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Did I Tell You The One About The Four Foot Entrepreneur?

THE BUSINESS PLAN: Have you ever dreamed of starting your own business? I did a long time ago. My first get rich scheme was the brain child of my best gal-pal who lived across the street from me on Sycamore Rd. Snapping bubble gum and scuffing her Mary Janes, during a competitive game of hopscotch, she explained our empire. She high ho-sied the position for CEO,wanting to be the brains of the company. I wanted to be the fast talking, wheeler-dealer, mover-and-shaker, “better hide your purse from her honey”, slick -as- grease -lightning, sales guy. To my disappointment, only one hour after hatching out of our entrepreneurial egg shells, she lost complete interest in managing our company, and wanted to play school. I was upset by her fickleness, left in a huff, determined to develop my own business plan.

PICTURE THIS: A small, skinny ADHD kid, hauling a rickety red wagon around the block, trying to pedal her hot off the press publications. She pulled her slightly tattered, unevenly stapled books and crayola cards up and down Sycamore Road, yelling at her wagon from time to time,frustrated by it’s slow as molasses momentum. She couldn’t understand why it could not keep up with her, the very first, and original,energizer bunny. Today, she parked at the end of Old Man Quirk’s driveway, and carefully selected one of her literary masterpieces . She had created it especially for him at breakfast, while slurping milk out of her Life cereal bowl .Shoving it into her front overall pocket, she skipped up to his front door. Like a true professional, she stopped her thumb sucking, and rang his doorbell three times fast. She always insisted on three rings, because three was a magic number. If the neighbor answered the door before the third bell, she’d ask permission to ring it one more time,beginning her educational lecture on magnificent power of three. The neighbor would usually smile, sometimes chuckle, but always agree to her strange request. She was well known in the neighborhood for her precociousness. Old Man Quirk recalled how she had hustled the neighborhood boys in September. Her mother, after placing a pan of shake and bake chicken in the oven, had started a kitchen fire. Within minutes, loud sirens announced the arrival of two large fire trucks. Before you could say Gazoontite, the kind people of Sycamore Rd. gathered outside Old Man Quirk’s house, to watch the smokey show playing out at #32. The “good” sister was crying crocodile tears. Another neighbor, Mrs. Tedeschi , rubbed the good sisters back, trying hard to comfort her. In contrast, the “bad” sister was pumped. She wore a devilish grin, and scalped tickets, displaying pure joy and excitement. She allowed the girls to watch the firemen for free, but the boys had to fork over a penny. If they refused, she became bossy, She barked orders that would make any Marine Sergeant proud. She said they couldn’t watch “her fire”, without purchasing one of her tickets. And now, to Old Man Quirk’s surprise, the same impish child, was looking up at him, flashing a toothless grin, a phony, forced, fake- like- Shirley- Temple- dancing- on- the- Good- Ship grin. He tried to hide his amusement, but wondered. What could she be up to now?

JUST LIKE SHE SAW IN A NOXEMA COMMERCIAL…THE PITCH;

She extended her left arm out theatrically, and pointed to her company car, the little wagon, informing Old Man Quirk that today was his lucky day. Then, the little actress, started imitating what she saw in a Joe Namath commercial. She slowly brought the card up to her face , slightly brushed it against her cheek, and posed, like Farah Faucet did in all the Noxzema Shaving Cream ads. Then came the hard sell: “Mr. Quirk, don’t be a dummy , you need to buy my book.”. What she wanted to say was,”If you walk away from this deal, you must be the offspring of Mississippi Hillbilly cousins, because without a doubt, my books are more exciting to read than watching Neil Armstrong walk on the moon.” She argued this point because the week before on a black and white television screen, she watched Armstrong jump out of his space ship. She didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Everyone in her kindergarten class agreed, the constant news coverage was annoying.To interrupt episodes of HR Puff -In-Stuff , Here comes the Monkeys, (Didn’t ABC know she had a crush on Davy Jones?) and later Hogan’s Heroes was simply unforgivable! At this point of the sale, Old Man Quirk started searching for change. She had sucked him in, the way a Hoover vacuum catches dust bunnies. Oblivious to the fact that he was no longer listening, she kept jibber jabbering. Old Man Quirk, exhausted by the “bad” sister’s high octane motor mouth, was very anxious to close the deal.

CLOSING THE SALE:

This was her favorite part. After the pitch, she was given a shiny silver or copper coin. She would squeal, hop up and down, then compose herself, enough to perform a Von Trap Family style curtsy. Holding the straps of her denim Osh-B-Gosh overalls, she extended both of her pinkie fingers, as if she was sipping tea with Queen Elizabeth. She then thanked the kind neighbor and promised to return, when the sequel was done. Then, with the speed of a Formula 1 race car, she rolled the rickety red wagon down the hill on Sycamore Rd. and crashed it into an old fir-tree, next to her family’s one car garage. Flying faster than Underdog did when rescuing Sweet Polly Purebred, she tripped over the front steps, threw open the door, raised the zip-lock bag filled with pennies above her head, and proudly screamed at the top of her lungs: “MOM!…MOM…I’M RICH!”. This was the part that annoyed her mother, but all kids with ADHD have high energy. She didn’t want to be known as a wallflower, and she actually liked the tag, “little rascal” that her grandparents had given her. Spanky or Alfalfa would be much worse. Even her father, the man who most adored her, would yell after her, as she pealed out the family driveway ,on her pink Barbie bike with training wheels, “Slow down, you’re a train wreck waiting to happen!”…but that’s another story for another hub…

The Moral Of The Story: I was that little entrepreneur, and although my start-up eventually went under, my excitement for writing never left. With that said, I hope my snippet entertained you enough to visit my page again, wondering… What is she up to now?”

Comments left for Lu on hubpages.com:

gwennies pen says: 9 days ago Very cute story. I could envision the whole account, smiling and laughing at all your little girl antics. So fun! I love childhood memories! This one is sweet and a pure joy!!! Thanks for sharing it with us.

SandyMcCollum says: 2 days ago This was a great story! I loved it, and I knew it was you the whole time and you made it sound adorable.

93ralwus says: 2 days ago I like the bad sister, so I like you and this is a well written story. It kept me reading wanting to know more and it has a pleasant suprise ending too.  Thanks for a great childhood memory and she reminded me almost of Lil Johnny and his Lil Red Wagon.

Debbie says: 15 hours ago This is great! Memories,…I loved it, you made is sound so cute. I could picture the whole story. I couldn’t stop reading it. Keep up the good work.

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THE FACE OF UNEMPLOYMENT….THEN…NOW

When will things get better?

Don’t Feel Much Like Celebrating…

5 months have passed…. …still no luck. She hates the boss for letting her go.

The news is on. She listens: “The stimulus is working…recovery…Obama’s doing great..More jobs…”

She grabs the remote… CLICK!

“Right…not from where I’m sitting.”

Unemployment, alive and well, becomes her nightmare for the holidays…

Unemployment… nights of worry,…no sleep….bills mounting…

“Will it ever get better?” “Why me, God? Why won’t you listen? Don’t you care?” She’s angry…. Then, the phone rings.

“Don’t answer that, Johnny…it’s just another collection call….”

Next day….

7 am….Scraping quarters out of the change jar…Johnny needs his lunch money.

“It was better with Dad here…You never should have kicked him out…at least we had food…it’s your fault, Mom…you did this to us…”

He slams the door on his way out. He walks to the bus stop angry.

She stares blankly, silently at the space where her son had stood.

She soaks in his words. She feels them penetrate, sting, pull at her heart.

He doesn’t remember the night mommy locked herself in the bathroom, trying to get away from Daddy.

He doesn’t remember the scary place, the place that was hidden, the place he begged his mother to leave…the locked up place…the dirty place…the place filled with sad women…the place mommy cried herself to sleep…the women’s shelter… No, it’s better that he doesn’t remember…`

Back then, he adored her. He was a two year old with questions…”Mommy, why are you so sad all the time? …Why does Daddy yell at you ?…Was Daddy choking you again, Mommy?….Oh Mommy, that’s a big bruise…I’m gonna hit Daddy for hitting you Mommy…Why are you crying Mommy?…It’s okay Mommy, I love you… it’s okay if Daddy doesn’t…I love you Mommy”

He was a two year old…climbing up onto her bed, spilling juice from his sippy cup, …rubbing her back…comforting his mommy… as she sobbed into her pillow….feeling scared and all alone….living a lie…a secret she kept…ashamed of being the victim…That evil man’s control suffocated her…

She dreamed of the day she would escape…but how?…

How did she end up like this?

Now, that boy hates her . He doesn’t ask questions…he thinks he knows all the answers…

He’s angry, resentful…and no longer two, but a teenager, slamming a door…

blaming his mommy… hating his mommy…she did this to him…she lost her job…she’s making them poor…

Now, she listens to him at night. She listens to him cry into his pillow…

He’s scared…what if mom can’t find a job?…Why isn’t there food? …what did Dad mean, “Will you lose the house?” …

Adult worries that plague her young son…He’s old enough to recognize life’s cruelty…too young to understand it’s not his mother’s fault….He’s scared…

just like his mother….

A part of her wants him to know the truth..She’s tired of hiding the secret…fed up..sick of being the parent blamed…

If he saw that photo, the one that hides in her top dresser drawer, folded in half, between old pages in her grandmother’s bible…

If he saw that photo, he’d understand…

Grandma took the picture, the night of the snowstorm…after another beating…when she left with him, bare foot, slipping in snow, …trembling hands unable to fit the key into the ignition…

“Oh God…there he is…he’s coming !”…. “Get the key in…hurry….Yes!..shift in reverse…”Hurry!, Why won’t you start car? Start!”

Pulling out of a snow covered driveway…shivering behind the wheel…wearing nothing but thin pajamas…listening to her son cry behind her…no jacket or teddy bear…alone in his car seat… Both of them….cold…confused….driving away….not knowing where to go….

Driving on slippery roads reported to be unsafe…”Stay inside tonight, treacherous driving…” the weather man had said, an hour before…

Before his father started raging about the grocery bill…she spent too much…$10 over budget….She was told she was “stupid”….then his attack…first with words, then…

Mommy was black and blue that night. Her eye was swollen after his cowardly punch…her knee badly scraped, swollen and bruised… where he had kicked her…after she fell…

Curled in a fetal position on the floor, next to the refrigerator… blocked..like a trapped animal…prevented from leaving…

This was the night, she held one hand up, blocking his punches, the other hand covering her face like a shield…whimpering from the pain… like a lost pup in a snow storm….

One last strike and “You deserve it!” he yelled.

Then it was over….for tonight…

…just an ordinary night for her….but different…

this time…

She left…

…This was the night ..emotional bruises took their toll…enough was enough…she was slowly dieing… Wishing she never had met his Daddy…wondering how her life became so sad…so trapped…so pathetic… Mommy should have gone to the police that night…but she went to Grandma’s instead.

Five years of pretending over…

…the weight was lifted…after sharing her secret with both her parents…watching their expression change… disbelief… shock….

She saw the anger and hatred grow in her father’s eyes….the gentle giant who was determined to be her protector…Never again would that man touch her….except with words… Her father, her hero, couldn’t stop the emotional battery. That she would learn to live with…by becoming numb…

No, he’ll never see that photo…her son will never know…That would hurt him too much….

She’s used to being hurt..once at the hands of the man she hated, now by her son’s sharp tongue. She always had been the scapegoat… the bulls eye… the receiver of cold stares.

Her son blames her now, just like his Daddy always did…after a bad day at work …it was always her fault…always…

She felt defensive, wounded, angry at her boy…

She reminds him of how it was…what it was like… living with Daddy…living with his words….

“Words…so what….They’re only words…you could have let Dad stay…It was better…better than being poor…”

She knows better.

Those words cut her, sliced her up for 15 years, made her bleed, feel small….never good enough… She was not living, but controlled….frightened….sad…numb… Only words? No….she knew better…

As she stared at the empty space, the space where her son had wounded her with words… She feels tired…tired of feeling sad….hurt…hurt now by the boy she loved more than her own life.

Taking it all in… hurtful words…harsh, unfair words spoken by her baby… not from the man she hated….

That night…

She thinks about the night …the night she took her life back… and the last night she spent with her Dad, the only man who had ever truly loved her… One week after she sat with her dieing father, remembering a sad conversation …their last… Her eyes water as she remembers…

She remembers….

gently touching , stroking, kissing swollen cheeks of a man, now only a shell….saying goodbye to the man who brought home dolls after business trips…the man who was ticklish under his chin…how they both giggled as she ticked him, a little girl adoring her father on his lap….his arms that rocked her after a boo boo… The man who carried her giggling up to bed, on his back…and sang to her, off key, bedtime lullabies…the arms that wrapped around her, protecting her…keeping her safe…

Her dad….her protector …since the secret had been uncovered… her hero…and a final goodbye…

Sitting alone with the only man she had ever loved…a true love… a beautiful love between a father and his daughter…

Sitting with her protector, now clinging to life, attached to tubes, machines…and her last question…the one he couldn’t respond to, but she knew he had heard…

Their last conversation…

“Daddy…it’s okay…you can go now Daddy…we’ll take care of Mom…But Daddy…When you get to heaven….will you ask God to let you be my guardian angel?…Watch over me and Johnny, Daddy….will you do that for me?…”

His last breath….

her tears…

sitting alone …without a protector…only the shell…engulfed by emptiness…

But That Night…

His spirit gave her strength… courage … Her Daddy was watching….the night she picked up the phone…for the first time in 15 years….she made that call….finally…she no longer worried about what the neighbors would think seeing a police cruiser parked in their driveway… The night she set herself free… The night her son began hating her…the night the policemen came to the house and made the bad man leave.

Her Dad would be proud….but not her son…

Her son’s words…”It’s all your fault…I hate you..” his words, loudly play over and over in her mind…

Only words?…the echoes won’t stop…

“Make it stop, God…”

Once again, her prayers go unanswered…

Is there a God?…Maybe for others..” She is convinced she’s all alone….

Then…

The phone rings….She tells herself …”Don’t answer it…another collector…When will it stop?…”

Another day….like all the others…

“This will be a lousy Christmas…” her daughter tells her before she stomps away… Her daughter, now the shooter… throwing daggers… “Life was better when Dad was here…”

Better?… Better?…. Why are her kids doing this to her? Why do they punish her with words?…

It wasn’t better…walking in a coma, living numb…

“Don’t feel the pain…deny it…lie to your friends…make excuses…pretend…”

Living in a world of numb….her only way to survive… Better?…

Another day…

Another Macy’s commercial plays on the HD screen…showing a happy family, presents under the tree…laughter…

“Where’s the remote? ”

She can’t look…she doesn’t want to … She hates seeing Christmas commercials…she hates her old boss for letting her go…joining the world of unemployment….

“Why me, God? What did I ever do to you? Don’t you love me? Why?”

It’s Christmas for those with a paycheck…It will be a great celebration…happy families opening presents…

Christmas for the unemployed… a day of dread…worry…no pay check….presents? …How will she pull that off? …

She can’t feel the Fa-la-la….

It will be a numb Christmas…. …no Fa- La- La for the unemployed…

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