9/21/2001

Response to Prompt #6
http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/11/prompt-6.html

9/21/2001

by Helen Sadler

I have avoided it for years. I would venture to say I haven’t listened to it in well over ten years. It has sat at the bottom of a CD stack and when I see it there, I simply say No. Over and over, I have said NO. I am not listening to that.

The item in question is the 2-compact disc set called America: A Tribute to Heroes. This concert aired on Friday evening, September 21, 2001. I was still in the midst of the haze I had been living in since 9/11 – the disbelief and horror of that day had not left me. Life felt like it could never and would never ever be the same. I was distraught by some of the rhetoric that was going around. Nothing felt right and nothing I did to feel better was making it better.

I definitely wanted to see this concert. I worked at Sony Customer Service until 8:45 p.m.  so I did miss the opening. The concert itself had many moving speeches and performances.

Yet, it didn’t do it for me. I still felt foggy and hurt and displaced. I could not put my finger on how to feel better. Nothing I tried help. I lived in a lot of silence about what had happened. It seemed too hard to talk about after the initial impact.

It did happen, however. I did find a breakthrough.

That Sunday there was a memorial service broadcast from Yankee Stadium, which I don’t remember much about. In fact, all I really remember is Oprah Winfrey reciting “We will not be moved” in a dramatic and moving way. I was lying next to Jim throughout the event as we watched the people in New York clinging to each other in grief and prayer. Then the floodgates opened for both of us when Jim said, “Those poor people.” It was the moment we both needed. It started the healing for me from that dreadful day. Inch by inch, I began to re-enter my life.

Back to the disc: I don’t know how many times I listened to it after the initial purchase. But somewhere along the line I decided that it brought more pain than happiness or healing. I don’t even remember making a conscious decision. Perhaps one day I had it on and just said ENOUGH, and it was relegated to the bottom of the pile from that day on.

I pulled the disc out last week and took a look at it. The song selection and the artists are superior. I have let this dangerous item sit next to me all week, keeping it on the table by my recliner. I have written this part of the essay before listening to it. I intend on listening to it today and reporting what transpires for me as I listen. I am going to keep a pad of paper nearby for sketching images and ideas that come to me. Let’s see what happens.

Side One:

Listening to the first disc went fairly well. I found myself writing down words and phrases that stood out to me.  Some of them were questions. I thought of making a found poem from them, so here goes:

Bruce asked

How do I begin again?

You took my heart when you left

Stevie preaches

When you say you hate in the name of God or Allah

You are lying to God

Perhaps my favorite was Bono who said,

We’re packing a suitcase for somewhere we’ve never been

And

Sick of sorrow

Sick of pain

Sick of hearing again and again

There won’t be peace on earth

Faith reminds us

There will come a day

Every tear will be wiped away

Tom says,

There ain’t no easy way out

Enrique brought words like

Cry…save…pain…laugh…forever…run…tremble…die

Phrases like

In too deep

Take my breath away

Stand by you

Neil imagines

Living life in peace

The world can be as one

Alicia lifts us with

Sing your greatest song and you’ll keep growing on

Someday we’ll all be free

And then the ultimate question

As things get serious

Do you think we can change everybody who hates

Before it’s too late?

Do you think we can change?

And the disc ends with “New York State of Mind”

It all seemed harmless enough.

I wrote:

This concert seemed to come with a promise

One that was not fulfilled

It may be why I turned my back on it

As was done to me

Yet – so much hope and encouragement

Am I buying what they’re selling?

Or did I sell out?

Side Two

It began with the Dixie Chicks:

Made a promise to myself

Never compromise

Love is out there waiting somewhere

You just have to go and find it.

I thought about what happened to the Dixie Chicks because of all this and I started to feel bitter and remorseful. I bought their music, but did I ever defend them?  Maybe I did, but I don’t remember. The tide was so against them. I think this is the reason I want to go see them when they tour America. I want them to know I’m with them, in some small weird way.

Dave Matthews sang, and then Wyclef Jean with Marley’s “Redemption Song.” This is when I started to feel it. This was the place.

Won’t you help me sing

These songs of freedom…

Mariah was heartfelt with her words

You don’t have to be afraid of what you are…

Epiphany.

I realized that when Jim and I broke that Sunday, when he said, “Those poor people,” he wasn’t just talking about those in New York. He was talking about all of us.

We are the poor people who are unable to get it right, and just keep descending into more bitterness and violence.

After that…

My stomach got queasy and stayed that way as Bon Jovi came on with

We’ve got each other and that’s a lot

We’ll make it I swear

Living on a prayer

In an acoustic fashion that remains my favorite on the album. Haunting delivery. More meaningful to me than ever.

Sheryl Crow asked:

Could you not be sad?

Could you not break down?

(The answer: no)

My stomach still was flipping, feeling strange. I pulled up a blanket and decided not to write anything else down.  That is until Sting said this:

Nothing comes from violence and nothing ever will.

The sun will rise another day.

I so want to believe!

Paul sang an eerie version of “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”  Celine sang “God Bless America.”  Willie played “America the Beautiful.”

I was spent. Wiped out. Needed water.  Wished I could sleep.

My initial conclusion:

9/11 is still with us.

9/21 got buried.

9/11 goes on and on.

9/21 is lost in time.

Its message got lost.  I got lost.

I think I quit listening to this because I didn’t fulfill the promise.  You see, when 9/11 happened, the first thing I noticed was the two diametric responses:

Bomb them all to the stone age.

OR

We need more love.

Of course, I’m on the love side. But what we got was the bombing…and so much more, so much worse.

We cannot even begin to count the tears shed in this country and around the world because of this event and the USA’s response.

But a part of me gave up when I saw the odds were against me.  A part of me just quit thinking and talking about it unless I knew I was with like minds.

And we see it still occurring here in America, maybe even worse than ever – two very different Americas. It is evidence that this has continued to fester underground for a very long time.

And do I speak up?  Not much. Not enough.

I’ve conditioned myself so thoroughly, I don’t even know where to begin.  My suitcase got packed, alright. But I haven’t paid much attention to where I traveled. And now I don’t like where I’ve ended up.

Final Reflection

I could not finalize this on Friday night, even though I tried.

This morning I wrote some more in my journal on this hoping to uncover some kind of truth that would tie this all up with a neat bow. 

Didn't happen.

So instead I picked up my guitar and did the next right thing. I played Dan Bern’s song with the chorus:

Don’t let your heart get broken by this world

At the bottom of the ocean

You might find a pearl

Don’t let your heart get broken by this world

I’ll just keep looking for those pearls, as I have been doing for the last fourteen years.

I will put this CD back on the shelf. Don't feel like going through this again.

 At least I have discovered why I don’t listen to it. Although each song seems harmless enough, together they represent something that I cannot separate from the time period that spawned it.

And I have to face this as well: it makes me think too much about the things I cannot change.

Every Rose has Its Thorn

Response to Prompt # 6 Cabinet of Dangers
http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/11/prompt-6.html


     "HELP!" I screamed out, if only in my head, as I was stared down by the overly attentive guy (Devon? Darin? Does it matter?) who refused to get the not-so-subtle hints to leave my house as I recovered from a wisdom tooth removal surgery. My puffy, bruised cheeks and mouth packed with cotton dressing were the only reasons I didn't verbally rip this guy a new one, but the hateful glares alone should have been enough.

     A little background may help:  I had been on three dates tops with this guy. He was, to put it mildly, a goofy guy who my grandmother worked with at Barnett Bank. Although I was a 17-year-old senior in high school, apparently this 20-year-old shooting star was the right brand of Christian to meet my grandmother's criteria and to convince my parents to let me date someone older.  He wanted to introduce me to his parents on our first date. Uh, no thanks. And, can you wipe off your sweaty palms before you apply your death grip to my hand? In fact, may I have my hand back please?

     And now, this.  His refusal to leave my side after the surgery bordered on stalking, and I just wanted him to leave me the hell alone.

     The doorbell rang. My exasperated mother went to see who else was coming to pay her daughter a visit, probably irritated that she would have one more annoying young adult under her feet.

    "Annmarie," she called out. "Someone is at the door for you."

    Really, mom? You can't show them in? But, then I thought better. This would be a short reprieve from D's (I really cannot remember this dude's name) beady eyes and sweaty everything, so I pulled myself up off the couch, and gingerly walked my drugged-up self to the door.

    And there he stood. Bill. With a single red rose. Be still my beating heart.

    More background: Bill was my much-sought-after co-worker at Ponderosa.  To say this guy was hot is an understatement. He even made the vile brown and green striped polyester work uniform look good. We had been playing a weird cat and mouse game. He was the cat; I was the mouse.  I liked him; he liked me. But, I wasn't his brand of girl. In other words, I didn't put out, and so we settled into a flirtatious friendship, me always wishing he'd see I was worth the wait.

    So, you can imagine how weak in the knees I was when I saw him there with that rose.  Then, reality hit me:  I had Christian Stalker inside, preventing me from inviting the Dream Machine in.

   GAAAAAH!

   As I explained the fact that I had another visitor to Bill, I watched his face contort into an expression I had never thought I'd see from the cool-as-a-cucumber casanova.  He looked rejected, sad even.

   Double GAAAAAH!

   As he left, head hanging, I closed the door and headed back into the family room, feeling quite irritated with the whole damn situation. I firmly kicked D out of my house and out of my life, despite the repeated desperate phone calls from him (and my grandmother). Again, can you say, "stalker?"

   Bill and I worked together for a little while longer after that, but we never talked about that day.

   And the rose sits pressed in my yearbook from 1987, a reminder that everything relies on timing, and our timing just wasn't good. On one hand, dangerous because it makes me fantasize about what could have been with Bill, a reminder of love not quite lost because it was never truly discovered. On the other hand, not dangerous because I'm sure the reality would not have lived up to the fantasy.

Peace

Response to Prompt 6

Peace
By Laurie J. Kemp

I don't remember when, but several years back my sister gave me a necklace. She often gives me unique things for my birthday or Chanukah, or even a trivial holiday such as Valentine's day. Whether it's a handmade soap from the farmer's market, or a piece of jewelry she bought from an eclectic Etsy site, she is exceptionally thoughtful about the gifts she picks out for others.

This gift was no exception. It's an unassuming, thin black twine with a terra-cotta clay disk about the size of a half dollar dangling from it. There are no connectors or clasps, nothing silvery or gold. Just a hole punched into the clay, and the twine looped through the hole so the clay hangs as a necklace. Very plain, sort of natural and earthy. But the disk, now that's what makes this necklace special. On one side, textured into the clay is a series of dots in lines reaching from the center out towards the circumference, resembling a sand dollar. The other side, a single word: שׁלוֹם.

***

For this writing exercise, we were asked to write about an object that feels dangerous or is emotionally charged. It came at a time when I was already contemplating the role this necklace had come to play in my life. I have had it for years, and I don't think I have ever worn it. It has been tied around the neck of a lamp I have on the night table at the side of my bed. When I roll over in the morning, I see it. When I turn the light out at night, I see it. שׁלוֹם.

I realize many won't recognize these letters, after all they are clearly not English. They are in fact Hebrew, and they spell out the Hebrew word Shalom. Almost any Jewish person raised with connection to a synagogue and Jewish study would recognize this word, even if they are not literate in Hebrew. שׁלוֹם looks strange amidst a paragraph of words in English because Hebrew is read from right to left. The ש which is the letter "shin" in Hebrew is actually the first letter of the word. Though probably spoken in most any encounter between speakers of Hebrew, the word itself is unique. It has three meanings. שׁלוֹם means hello, goodbye, and peace. It is also used in Hebrew phrases, like  שׁבּת שׁלוֹם or Shabat Shalom, meaning Good Sabbath.

***

About two weeks ago, I was getting ready for work in the morning, and I stopped at my night table to put on a ring I had taken off and left there the night before. I looked at the necklace wrapped around my lamp and wondered why I never wear it. I tried it on though I knew it didn't really coordinate well with my outfit. I decided I didn't like how it hung on my chest with what I was wearing, so I took it off. Just holding it gave me a subtle feeling of peace, like running my fingers over the word שׁלוֹם and thinking about my sister gave me strength and calm. I wanted to wear it, but I put it in my pocket and decided to carry it around with me as a physical cuing object throughout my day. If I felt stressed, upset, or angry, I'd put my hand in my pocket and rub my finger over it. שׁלוֹם. Peace.

As I walked around throughout the day with the black twine hanging from my pocket, I also couldn't help but think of tzitzit, another Hebrew word for the fringes that hang from the traditional Jewish prayer shawl. I felt what I can describe only as a sense of comfort. Every time I touched my necklace throughout the day, the necklace that was hiding in my pocket, I started to think more and more about my life as a Jewish person. And this, is why my שׁלוֹם necklace is a dangerous object- an emotionally charged object. I realized in my contemplation, maybe not wearing it had less to do with how it looked on my neck, and more to do with my fear of being outwardly Jewish in public. There I said it. I'm relieved, yet ashamed it's out there.

As a young child I never experienced such feelings, not because of youthful naïveté but because in New York, Jewish people are everywhere- especially Long Island, where I grew up. I was surrounded by many Jewish people, and most of my friends and our family friends were Jewish. There were multiple synagogues around the area, and schools were even closed for the major Jewish holidays! Later, when my parents split, we moved to Southeast Florida- Ft. Lauderdale area. In Hollywood, there were plenty of Jewish people. I had friends who were and plenty of friends who weren't (my boyfriend among them) but I never encountered anyone who didn't know what Jewish meant, and I didn't have any friends who questioned my faith or my family's culture. Broward County schools didn't close on all the Jewish holidays, but we always had off on the high holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I went to college in Miami and things were similar there. Friends who were, friends who weren't. Professors who were, professors who weren't. I never really gave it much thought.

Then one day, soon after graduation from the U, when my boyfriend-turned- husband and I were living in Orlando, I encountered my first in-person Jew joke. I was waiting tables at a seafood restaurant, getting ready to start graduate school. A redneck waiter came running back to the kitchen complaining about his table of guests who didn't order any alcoholic beverages. All they wanted was a round of "Jewish cocktails," he said. By this he meant water with lemon, which bothered him because they wouldn't be running a bar tab which theoretically would make his tip bigger. I had no idea what he meant until I asked another waiter who laughed while explaining it to me. I was shocked, no horrified. And while I wanted to tell him off and explain how insulting he was, I didn't. I cringed inside and turned away, afraid if he knew I was Jewish, if any of them did, they wouldn't like me anymore. That's right. A confident, more educated than any of them adult, I was embarrassed. Hard to believe I was the one embarrassed in this scenario.

Fast forward almost 20 years later. After moving to Palm Beach County, then back to Broward again, we landed here in Southwest Florida. A little less metropolitan, a little more country, and a lot less Jewish. I wouldn't have noticed really. It wasn't even that important to me. My husband isn't Jewish, and as long as there was a synagogue close by where my son could go to religious school and have a bar-mitzvah, the rest didn't matter so much. At least that's what I thought. That's what I thought until I started encountering more and more people who asked me (and my son) things like, What is Jewish? To which I thought, really? Why didn't you tell me you were Jewish? or If you're Jewish, does that mean you don't believe in G-d? And of course, So you're Kosher? What exactly is Kosher?

The list of questions goes on. But I think what's been most upsetting is I have encountered people who treat me like I haven't yet found G-d, just because I don't accept their version of what G-d is. They placate me, nod at me, claim to understand and even say they'll pray for me, all because they think I'm a child who just doesn't get it yet. I can't explain how insulting and infuriating it is. It's as though I haven't arrived yet. Poor me, I haven't been saved yet.

And this closed mindedness, this need to believe all people have to believe the same things, is what has me living quietly. I won't go so far as to call it hiding, as people who I know well, my friends and even my co-workers know my faith. And please, don't you dare mistake my hidden שׁלוֹם for shame. I am not ashamed of my beliefs, of my family's rich history and Jewish roots. It's self preservation. If I tell my students I don't celebrate Christmas, they want to know why. If I have to explain why, I have to explain my faith. If I have to explain my faith, I must immediately be on guard. For simply mentioning my faith, I may be accused of denouncing their beliefs. It's as though as soon as someone knows you are Jewish, everything you do or don't do, is because you're Jewish.

Try going to a birthday party with your 3rd grade son whose friends know you're Jewish, because you taught your kid to be proud of who he is and thankfully he is, and have another child ask you if it's true that Jewish people are the chosen people. How's that for a loaded question for a token Jew at a kid's birthday party? Yup, that happened. I was dumfounded. I didn't know what to say. Heck I didn't even know what I believed was the right answer. All I could think to say is people believe different things. It all depends on what you and your family believe. Crisis averted. Can we go home now? Now my son is 17 and I'm glad I don't have to explain anything for him. He handles it on his own.

My שׁלוֹם necklace is a dangerous object because it challenges me to face my fears, to be proud of who I am, and to find a way to navigate my faith in the world I inhabit. It represents peace, literally. It's up to me to find peace with who I am and what I believe.

Prompt #5 Dream Girl

9:17 am Tuesday
David absently checks his morning emails, listening for his dream girl.  She passes his desk each morning.  He never looks at her; he sees her later in the day, but it's this morning ritual makes his heart stop.  Despite the large staff at Harpo, they really are a family; in that they know intimate, embarrassing details about each other, but talk instead about the weather.  Not that he's ever really talked to her.  Occasionally bumping elbows while making coffee doesn't count.  They haven't ever really talked.  Not together, at least.  He has imaginary conversations with her all the time: in the shower, on the drive to work, at lunch. But it always ends the same way: horrendously.  He puts his foot in his mouth every time.

Their pasts are just a huge elephant in the room.  There is no room for the present, which makes a future with her impossible.  He's certain Claudia doesn't even know his name, although they eat lunch together every day.  He wolfs down his ham sandwich in the amount of time it takes her to heat up her Marie Callender's, managing to mutter a "have a good day" just as the microwave dings.  He's considered eating at a different time, but he can't give up those two and a half glorious minutes of being alone with her.  Each day, he swears anew that this will be the day to break the ice, memorizing jokes or factoids that he thinks she'd like, but then he realizes he has no idea what she'd find funny.

She's such a gentle creature. Delicate, really.  She must be self-conscious about her story; everyone is, and hers is more tragic than most.  She's a bit of a celebrity, really; admired for her tenacity and gentle demeanor, considering the horrors of her early childhood.  She's so quiet and seems so reserved, in her signature headband and matching skirt suit.  The lavender is his favorite.  He loves that she wears skirts.  She could hide her leg with slacks, but she doesn't.  He marvels at how well she matches her shoes too, considering she has to buy them two at a time.  His heart breaks for all the unworn left heels and right flats.  He wonders if her hips hurt.  He'd love to massage them.  He wonders if she has nightmares from the foster homes, or if she hates the heat.  Just thinking about that day, imagining her lying helpless in that car, close to death, snot and tears sticking to her face, her chin bleeding, her poor leg twisted and tangled mercilessly.  It sickens him, really.  He thinks of his own mother, and imagines living without her, imagines knowing she was in prison.

Last season, when Dr. Phil had on the mother who left her baby in the car for a job interview, Claudia did all the prep notes herself.  He marvels at that.  He marvels at her.  So much of his love for her is wrapped up, though, in her story.  He worries that she'd be offended by the way he longs to protect her, that she'd see his concern as pity; his admiration would always be clouded by the taint of how different she is.  She is, truly, different.  But how could he ever convince her that it is that difference that draws him to her without her thinking he was a freak, or that he thought she was.

9:18. He catches a whiff of her perfume, three glorious steps after he heard her down the hall.  click, click, clomp.  His heart catches.  Click, click, clomp. He sucks in a breath.  Click, click, clomp.  He lets out a long breath, brought almost to tears by her perfect, uneven gait.

If only he could tell her how beautiful she is.  If only she could know how many nights her face was the only image that allowed him to fall asleep; that when the smell of burning flesh in his childhood home woke him up in a heavy sweat, it was that adorable little question mark of a scar, hugging her cute little cleft chin, that allowed his chest to rise and fall, slower, slower, into sweet slumber.

Prompt #6

Cabinet of Dangers
from the workshop given by Leslie Jamison on Flash Memoir


This exercise takes its inspiration from the tradition of wunderkammer, or cabinet of curiosities -- also known as cabinet of wonder, or wonder-rooms. These are collections of wondrous objects -- some crafted by hand, others taken from the natural world: polished stones, stuffed crocodiles, bits of coral, bits of human tooth, wooly ferns, tusks of narwhals. Cabinets of curiosity often held items that remained somewhat mysterious, whose categories hadn't yet been determined.  I saw several of these cabinets at a museum in Atlanta -- they are a fascination. You can see many more images to help you get ideas by using Google Images.

For this exercise, I'd like you to explore the idea of a "memory theater" full of objects from your own past. You can draw these objects or list them. But the idea is that you remember objects that feel charged with some kind of emotional electricity -- ideally objects whose significance you haven't figured out, objects whose categories haven't yet been determined. In particular, I'd like you to focus on objects that feel dangerous -- that hold some kind of pain or explosive charge, that feel as if they might erupt at any moment. (Please don't get too hung up on the last part. I struggled with this during the workshop because I focused on that too much.)

List five of these objects (or more) and jot down a few sentences about the memories and emotional charge that attach to each one.  Then choose one and write more about the story in any format you choose.

Due date: December 8

One Day

Invitation to Write #5

Not gonna lie. This was a really tough one for me. I have never waited this long to complete one of our writing prompts, and I even considered not doing it or just writing whatever I felt like instead. As I pondered over it, I even felt physically uncomfortable, like almost a little anxious or panic stricken and nauseated. I had my husband give me all of the parts and pieces and then I randomly selected them from the piles in each category. I still sat and stared at the screen for awhile and thought once again about not doing it. Clearly, I am not a fiction writer. Here is the start to my story. Not sure where it's headed next.

Place: Hollywood Memorial Hospital
Plot: Rags to Riches
Strange Element: election
Tone: Morose (seems like it's a plant with hospital, but I assure you it was not)

One Day
By Laurie J. Kemp

It was time to make the rounds through the east wing of 9th floor, both Mike's favorite and least favorite time of the day. His work day was just beginning, but he always started his shift with a visit to his favorite person. He wheeled his utility cart into the elevator and hit the 9 button. He was relieved to have the elevator to himself. These brief quiet rides in the elevator throughout the evening gave him time to think. There's nothing glamorous about emptying trash and mopping floors in a hospital. But it was a good job. Consistent. It helped him pay rent and one of the benefits to full time employees was tuition assistance, something he needed desperately.

The elevator reached the ninth floor with a familiar ding, and the doors opened to the nurse's station. "Hey Mike."  The day nurse smiled and waved. He held the elevator door open until she got on, and he hit the Lobby button for her.

"How's my girl?" he asked before letting go of the door.

"Not much has changed," the nurse replied. They exchanged concerned smiles and said goodnight, and he let the elevator go. Every night as Mike arrived for the evening shift he asked the same question. Every night he got the same answer. Jane Doe in room 9210 was still in a coma, and no one had been by to see her. At least until 7 when Mike arrived. He always started his shift in 9210. Maybe it was because he knew she couldn't judge him or respond to him, or maybe it was because he had no one else in his life either. But talking to Jane became a daily ritual.

In a way, he could identify with her, alone and hanging on the edge. Sure, he wasn't hanging on the edge of life or death, but sometimes it felt like it. Jane was probably alone because her family was unaware of the accident and where she was. Mike's family on the other hand, had chosen to cut him off. Whatever the circumstances, he found great comfort in visiting with her, and heck it beat paying for therapy.

"How are you feeling today, beautiful?" He always called her that. And she was. Never mind the tubes and contraptions, her face was angelic. Chestnut brown hair framed a peaches and cream complexion. Last week, Mike caught a look at her glassy green eyes for the first time when the doctor pulled them open and flashed his pen light for a look. Gemstones. "Can I get a look at those beautiful green eyes?" One day, he thought to himself. One day.

He emptied the trash bins in her room, mostly just rubber gloves and tube caps from new saline pouches. She didn't get up and she didn't have company, so there was little change in her room from day to day. He thought often about bringing her flowers, but talked himself out of it every time. Instead, he gave her what everyone really wants- time. It was the perfect opportunity for him to stop awhile. Most of the patients were finishing up visits with their loved ones who stopped by on the way home from work. It made it easy for him to tuck away in Jane's room and stay out of every one else's way. He would attend to their rooms later.

Once he finished up, he sat in the chair by the window next to her bed. In the beginning, he would ask her who she was, where she was from. He would assure her that her loved ones would be there as soon as they heard. But now those words seemed empty. She had been there almost a month, and as far as Mike knew, he had been her only visitor. Instead, he began telling her about his own life. He had some secrets, and he knew she was the one person he could trust not to tell.

"I made a choice, ya know, " he told her. "I wanted to make something of myself first, so they didn't think I was just after their money. It would be easy to make that assumption, and it couldn't be further from the truth." He could see the movement of her eyes beneath the lids. He knew enough to understand it wasn't a reaction to him, but it sort of made him feel like she was listening. "Look at them." He motioned over to the TV that hung from the corner of the room. The nursing staff would put it on from time to time throughout the day to break the silence. It was the evening news, and there in a press conference talking about his campaign for governor was Charles Dobson, the frontrunner. "That's right beautiful. That son-of-a-bitch is my dad."

Room 2023

 Response to this prompt:

http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/10/prompt-5.html

By random pick, these were my elements:
Place -- Nashville
Plot -- Overcoming a monster
Strange Element -- rose quartz crystal mala beads
Tone -- grief-stricken

Room 2023

by Helen Sadler

A train whistle blew in the early morning hours. Light was just starting to creep into the room.  I was sleeping deeply when the distant sound made its way to my consciousness. My hand reached out for my water bottle on the nightstand, my eyes still closed, seeking refreshment from the dry hotel room. Instead, I felt the cool shape of a hand in mine. Stunned and frightened, I withdrew quickly. Then, a calm voice spoke, “Amanda.”

****

I have been holed up in room 2023 in the Renaissance hotel, Nashville, Tennessee since last Monday.  It is now Sunday morning. My time here is done. I came to confront something I was not ready to battle – my own loss, my own abandonment, my own guilt, my own grief.

It was Monday morning when I had gotten the call that my brother Patrick was dead: hit by a drunk driver on the streets of Nashville on a brilliant sunny day. The call came from his musician friend Braydon, the guy who had suggested my brother move to Nashville. Thanks a lot, Braydon, I had thought to myself. Thanks for setting my brother up to fail.

Now I know this is nowhere near the truth.

Tuesday

When I met up with Braydon to have lunch at a Mexican restaurant (although I wasn’t the least bit hungry) he told me that Patrick was making waves in Nashville with his songs. There were people interested in his demos, and it appeared that things were going to be happening soon. He really had a talent, Braydon said, sipping his Coronoa. In six months, Patrick had made strides. It had all looked so promising. This is a loss in so many ways.

Knowing things were going well for Patrick was bittersweet for me. I was sure the town was going to eat him alive. I hated being wrong.

So, I did what I always do. I tucked it away. That was all in the past now, I thought to myself. Time to get down to business. What about Patrick’s belongings? He was living with you, right? I’m his family, and I’d like to deal with it.

What Braydon told me whirled my head around. Patrick had moved to Nashville with his girlfriend Gabby. They had married shortly after their arrival, and had moved to their own place.  Braydon was point blank on this: You will have to talk to Gabby.

Shocked is not a strong enough word to explain how I felt in that moment. I nearly threw up the little bit of chips and salsa I had eaten.  Married? And he never told me?  In five months, he never TOLD me?

I stumbled out of the restaurant, incoherent and blubbering, knowing by the time I hit my hotel room bed in a rage of tears that this was all my fault. I had unleashed this monster upon myself.

And now I’m on the 20^th floor, high above Nashville skyline, battling it alone.

Wednesday

I called Braydon again.

Could you give me Gabby’s number? I would like to speak with her. Tell her I’m at the Renaissance. If she is uncomfortable with me coming to her home, we can meet here if she’d like. I’ll leave a key at the desk.

He hesitated. I will see what I can do.

Fine. I tossed my phone to the floor. That hesitation really pissed me off.

Thursday

I had barely left the room. I wasn’t eating much. When the maid came by, I simply slipped down to the Starbucks lounge downstairs and hung out, watching the tourists and business execs having fun, gossiping, trading stories. I was alone in a big city, something I was not used to, and disconnected from everything I knew. This Nashville was a weird and wired place – so unlike my hometown of Ashland, Ohio, with farms in every direction. So unlike my current home of Pagosa Springs, Colorado, mountains framing the greens and blues and beautiful natural springs. Here it was all concrete and tall buildings and bars galore and heartbreak. Here my brother died on the streets trying to make a dream come true.

Heartless. It was all heartless.

Like me.

Friday

I allowed myself to remember.

No word from Gabby. Why should she call me? When had I ever showed her the least bit of respect? I didn’t even know she was my sister-in-law until three days ago.  She must know Patrick never told me.

And why should he have? I didn’t deserve it.

Patrick. My only sibling who was just a year and five days younger than me. Our father – a failed drug addict, incarcerated, non-existent. Our mother, happy to have married a rich man and moved us to a country mansion – a place Patrick and I never felt comfortable. I escaped to Ohio University when Patrick entered his senior year in high school.  He fell apart. He wanted a relationship with our father, who died that autumn in prison. The finality of it nearly killed my brother then. Patrick fell into his own chemical dependency; drugs and booze, DUI’s and barely graduating high school. I refused to worry about him. If he wanted to take the same loser path as our father, let him.

I got a degree in journalism and fled west. Southern Ohio was simply not far enough away from the pain and craziness called home. I left it all behind. Shut it away. Pagosa Springs was perfect. Cool and high blue sky and rodeos in the summer. The river and the springs kept the winter temperatures moderate.

I started anew. I pretended I didn’t have a family. 

That lasted a couple of years. Then one day, Patrick called.

Can I move in with you for a while? I’d like to come to Pagosa Springs. I’m tired of Ohio.

I agreed. Reluctantly. I didn’t know anything about my brother any more. He caught me off guard – that is the only answer I could give myself on why I said yes. He could be a hot, addicted mess for all I know.

But he wasn’t. He had sobered up. He was writing his own music. He was studying Buddhism.

As a token, he gave me a beautiful set of rose quartz mala beads. I wasn’t Buddhist, but I loved the feel of those cool, smooth beads in my hand. It was a healing token, for sure. There were no words needed about our previous separation. We were together again.

*

Then, Gabby.

He met her at the Buddhist meditation center a month after arriving in Pagosa Springs. He brought her home a week after that for me to meet her. I was not impressed.

My brother is one of those forever young looking guys – floppy blonde hair, brilliant and piercing blue eyes, never a bit of fat on his body. A head-turner in jeans and a leather jacket.

Gabby was part Blackfoot Indian, part Hispanic, part Russian. She rarely smiled, and when she did it always had a wryness or irony about it. Her hair was thick, straight black, heavy and cut in sharp angles. On her right forearm was a tattoo of the Blackfoot Indian Warrior symbol – a stylized sun. On her left forearm was a Buddha. I saw this as very mixed up and I said so.

It’s about balance, she had told me.

Right.

I made sure Patrick knew how disappointed and angry I was when they decided to live together.  This girl was not for him. I felt abandoned and alone. How dare he come and make everything great again between us, and then ruin it with this bitch?

I’m sorry you feel that way was all he had to say to me.

We were never going to get along. After that, Patrick and I rarely spoke. I didn’t even know what he was doing for a living.

*

About a year later, Patrick came to me with the news they were moving to Nashville.

Remember Braydon Boyd? I’ve been in touch with him. He is going to set me up with some people to meet. He has lived in Nashville for five years, and works on Music Row. This is a great chance for me.

My only reply: Is she going with you?

Of course.

I had nothing more to say.

While he was out of the room, I slipped the mala beads into his leather jacket pocket.

Adios, little brother.

Saturday

I wouldn’t open the door for the maid. Braydon called saying he had finally heard from Gabby and gave me her number.

Just text her, he said.

So I did. Gabby, he was my brother. I understand you are his wife. I would just like something of his. Some small thing.

I’m not really sure what is appropriate, she responded.

Please.

That’s all I had.  I went back to sleep. And slept. And slept.

****

Then, the train whistle. Someone saying my name.

Gabby was sitting in my room. In the early morning light I saw something in her that I had never seen before; something I never allowed myself to see before. A certain beauty and grace and humility.

And now, a grieving widow.

She reached out and handed me the mala beads.

He was so sad when you returned these to him. Perhaps now they can be a healing force.

What could I say but I’m sorry.

There were no words.

Gabby and I sat in silence for a while. Then she told me he had been cremated.

I’d like his ashes spread in the mountains of Pagosa, she said. Somewhere near the river. There is nothing left in Nashville for any of us.

This surprised me. And pleased me.

Then I saw how deeply sorrowful she looked. For the first time I allowed that her devastation at this loss had to at least be as great as mine. And for the first time in a long time, my heart broke open for her. And for my brother, who could not be honest with me, and for the horrible way he had to die. 

And for myself, for all the abandonment and loss I’ve suffered for far too long.  It felt like a river, a river of surrender and acceptance and healing love that was rolling along, carrying away everything hurtful and leaving behind all which could save us.

I would never have him again. Neither would Gabby.

I had the mala beads. I would have his ashes nearby. Maybe I would get to know his wife.

It would have to be enough.

The Weeping Willow by Annmarie Ferry

http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/10/prompt-5.html

Here I stand, firmly rooted in the backyard of a modest suburban Michigan home.  The large yard slopes from the deep red siding ranch toward my spot and flattens out toward the small patch of woods that separates the property from the neighbor’s domain. I have the distinct honor of being the main attraction of the yard, and I cherish that privilege.  Yet, I cannot help but feel alone, long forgotten by the family who left the frigid winters for sunnier skies in Florida.

"One…two…three! Ready or not, here I come!" The curly haired girl pushed off of my trunk, leaving the canopy of shade to begin the seek part of the game with her two little sisters. I watched her shield her eyes against the glare of the summer sun as she began her search.  She’d have to venture to the front part of the yard, for there were no real hiding spaces in the backyard.  The jungle gym provided no shelter with its slim metal bars, and the small vegetable garden didn’t yield anything tall enough to crouch behind. Besides, their mother would be furious if they trampled through her well-tended rows of tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, squash, and peppers.

“Ha! I found you!” I heard her giggly shout as she discovered the youngest sister.  She always went to the same place: the giant trio of pine trees that grew oddly together in the right corner of the front yard.

The two held hands as they combed the rest of the yard for the middle sister. She was the sneaky one, always elusive. They knew she wouldn’t be in the house. Once they were out for the day, out is where they stayed until their mother called them in for lunch, and then again for dinner.

The modest porch leading up to the front door wasn’t a good spot to hide since its steps were made of cement and butted right up to the house. But, the full shrubs on either side offered some shelter. They looked at each other as if to say, “We got her now!” and took off running, splitting up to ambush their victim.

But, the shrubs weren’t hiding their sister. Scratching her head, the oldest motioned to the youngest to follow her to the garage. She had to be in the garage.  They tiptoed in, spotting her white, Stride Rite shoe just peeking out behind the red wagon that had been strategically flipped onto its side.

“Got ya!!!” I heard them yell out in unison.

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The braided rope was flung over one of my sturdy branches. I winced as the father yanked hard to pull the rope to an even length so he could tie it around a tire. He yanked again; making sure it was secured enough to hold the weight of the girls.

     They stood on the outskirts, watching anxiously as he installed their very first tire swing. The jungle gym swing had lost its appeal long ago, so this was a welcome addition.

Before he could complete the words, “It’s ready,” the girls were pushing and shoving to get first dibs on the wheel of fun. He reminded them to be nice as he put the smallest on top and let the middle one climb through to take her seat in the center. The oldest puffed out her cheeks in disappointment as tears welled up in her eyes. Seeing this, he gave her the special job of helping him push her little sisters. She, he assured her, would get to ride solo on the next round. Suddenly, having to wait didn’t seem so bad.

As they were pushed and twirled in all directions, the girls squealed in delight, their heads flung back, wispy hair flying into their faces, stomachs doing flip flops as they spun at dizzying speeds until they begged to stop.

Later, the older one snuck out to the backyard swing on her own. She didn’t really enjoy the rush of flying and spinning, preferring instead to push off with her own two feet, gently rocking as she enjoyed the sunlight filtering through the slender leaves dressing my ground-sweeping branches.

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The crisp, autumn air signals the return of school, just as my brilliant green turns to yellow.  Even though I am lonely for long stretches of the day, I brighten as I hear the girls and their friends approaching on their short trek home.

They rush through the sliding glass door of the sunken family room, backpacks shed, school dresses abandoned for play clothes, running toward me to have their after-school “tea” party. As they slurp down the Kool-Aid flavor de jour, they play grown up, sharing secret hopes and dreams for the future. Not once does it dawn on any of them that those futures will create rifts among them, some merely logistical, others philosophical. I won’t interrupt their optimistic musings with this knowledge. I will allow them to be little girls, to delight in their fantasies.

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     In winter, I am forgotten for the comfort of hot cider, warm cocoa, and the burning fire indoors.  When they do venture outdoors at the insistence of their mother, they don’t even glance my way. Instead they play house in the igloo their father built for them or build snow people families until the tiny bit of exposed flesh begins to sting from the cold wind.

I watch over them, hoping they will sense my longing for their company, silently calling out to them to run circles around my large trunk. But, the journey through the deep snow in their heavy boots and constricting snowsuits must be too tedious.

I feel isolated, as gloomy as the sunless sky, dulling the mood with its constant grayness.

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The new owners have grown children and haven’t yet been blessed with grandchildren.  The jungle gym was torn out the day after they moved in, the weakening rope of the tire swing cut, the whole lot tossed out with the trash.They have replaced it with a small wrought iron table and chairs where they enjoy their coffee on pleasant mornings and on occasion, a light mid-day meal.

There is no infectious giggling, no talk of what-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up. Instead, they reminisce, never tiring of re-living past memories and wallowing in nostalgia. Begrudgingly, I bless them with my shade and try to delight in their willingness to tolerate their mundance existence, lives winding down into an acceptance of what will be.

     But, the wind carries the whispers of past laughter and drums up the memories of those three little sisters sharing secret wishes, making me long for the past.

And I weep.