I breathe it in, this feeling – light as air and heavy as hope – and exhale. I wish I could share it, box it up and tie it with a bow, so you could know, too. Or maybe you do, down in your soul, deep in the roots of what makes you, you – what makes us human – the tug and pull and steady, sturdy seed that keeps us whole. I’m thankful. Thankful. Thankful.
*A quick note! Graham has Friday off, so I’ll be taking a break, as well. I’ll be back on Monday, unless Baby Girl decides to make an early appearance. In the meantime, for all who celebrate, I wish you a wonderful, warm Thanksgiving! I hope it’s full of love and tasty food, and that you come away with a smile and a full belly.*
I wrote this poem in February of 2022, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot over the last couple of weeks. Here it is, so you can read it easily without leaving this point:
Going Gray
When my child asks why my hair is going gray, I will say: “Those are my stardust streaks.” I will tell her we’re all made of earth and star stuff, and one day, once again, that’s what we’ll be. And I’ll remind her that it’s not a tragedy to say goodbye, even though it’s sad for a time, because she can always find me in the night sky.
At the time when I wrote it, we’d been talking about maybe trying for a baby, but hadn’t made a decision yet. We would, just about a week later. And what a journey we’ve had since then. One day, I’ll write about it, from start to finish, with all of its many ups and downs.
Today, as I’m sitting here, I’m just grateful. When I wrote “Going Gray,” I didn’t know for sure if I’d ever have children. I didn’t know for sure that I wanted a child, though I think I was about 80% there. Now, I can’t imagine making any other decision. I’m so excited for our Baby Girl. I’m so ready for her. I’m so elated to have a daughter on the way, and to know that we’re almost there. December 8th – her due date – is less than a month away.
And it’s incredible to think that one day, she’ll grow up, she’ll have her own feelings about motherhood, and about aging. And one day, hopefully a long time from now, we will have to say goodbye to each other. She’ll live a whole life, and for all of it, even when I’m gone, I’ll be her mother.
I hope I’m a good one.
And I hope that one day, she’ll read this poem, and know that I was thinking about her, even before I knew it myself.
*A quick note: Yes, this is Part 1. I anticipate posting this story in three parts, and it will have to do for the rest of the year’s short story challenge. It’s going to be a good one, at least. 😊 I’ll write more about why I’ve decided to post it this way next week, but for now, enjoy! And thank you for reading!*
Tragedy runs in my family. Or, I should say, my family runs Tragedy. We used to, anyway. Falls from grace, catastrophic accidents, self-fulfilling prophecies of doom and ruin – those run in my family, too. But I don’t think any of us anticipated this particular calamity.
I suppose, that’s the thing about murder.
It happened like this. The sun rose silent and peaceful over Tragedy, and, though no one knew it yet, over the corpse of the late Cassius Fugate, just recently deceased. In the warm orange light of a new day, with the dawn casting a rosy shadow on his sunken cheeks, it might have been easy to believe that he was sleeping, quiet and still, his head propped delicately on a mossy gray stone just inside the village green. But from this sleep, Cassius would never wake.
Or perhaps it happened like this. Cassius Fugate spent the last days of his life investigating the inner working of the Holder family, who’d long controlled the goings-on and the unpredictable financial fortunes of Tragedy, and who, in the last several months, had lost their beloved matriarch, Lorelai Robinette Holder. Exactly what Cassius thought he’d find, no one was quite sure. But Small Town America surely does love a villainous family, and Cassius had just taken over Tragedy’s local newspaper from his grandfather, a man who’d long since washed his hands of any real reporting and seemed to enjoy the more social aspects of journalism. Unlike the dogged and dauntless Cassius, Lucius was a man of fine tastes and pretty words.
The village’s adjustment to this abrupt and uncivil change of style was not exactly pleasant, and Cassius dealt with lots of accusations of “stirring the pot” and of “raking up mud” in the last days of his life. Just like me, he’d grown up in Tragedy, but the town seemed pretty ready to disown him, by the end. People can be vicious.
On his last day, Cassius caught up to me walking home from the coffee shop.
“The littlest Holder,” he called me.
“Hi, Cassius,” I answered. “You know we’re the same age. We graduated together.”
“I’m aware,” he said. “What’s got you out and about today?”
“Same thing as you,” I said. “Work, life, the inevitable need for caffeine and sustenance.”
“Ah,” he said, as if I’d given him an opening. “So it’s not the reading of your grandmother’s will?”
“That was yesterday.”
“And how did it go?”
“Well, Cassius,” I deadpanned, “about as you’d expect. Tears, dirges, a few outbursts from Uncle Sean. We’re broke, you know. I know you know.”
“Are you? I didn’t know,” he said.
Neither of us believed him.
“What are you after, Cassius?”
“Just a fine conversation with a pretty lady,” he said.
“Sure,” I answered. “Then you should probably move on.” Already, his face started to turn a delightful shade of bright pink. “What was it you used to call me? Ah, yes, I remember: ‘Moon-face Millie.’ And a few others, I think?”
Cassius was silent.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, Cassius. I got nothing for you.”
He sputtered out an apology and then added, “That was a long time ago, Millie. I’ve grown as a person since then.”
“Lucky for you,” I said, “so have I.”
And I left him there, on the corner of Schoolhouse Lane and River Road. It was the last I’d ever see of him alive, and the last public interaction he appears to have had.
I’m just here in the corner – I watch, I see, but no one sees me. They pace the floor, drink their tea and count the hours. The world turns and I am still, more solid somehow than before. It is an enviable position, to be invisible. They say it’s the fate of all women: to disappear.
We came to the woods to find them. We came to search. We think we’re hunting them. We were wrong.
************
September 15, 2022 (noon)
This is day one. I’m excited, and I think the others are, too. As excursions go, this one is fairly long for me, and I think I’ve packed enough. Clothes, food, water – I’m only worried about coffee. But that’s, as they say, a me problem. Dan would say I’m addicted. I say he wouldn’t like me without coffee. I guess we’ll see which of us is more correct.
I suppose I can take some time and space here to talk about what we’re doing, and why I’m excited, and how I got here in the first place. One day, when I’m eighty, if I can keep up with this journal, I might like to read it and enjoy the memories. So it started like this:
I’m eight, or maybe nine, and my dad has gone camping with two if his good friends. Just camping. But they get more than they bargain for, and on the last night of their trip, they score the coolest recording I’ve ever heard. Hoots and calls and howls and growls, and they swear, up and down, that they managed to get proof of Bigfoot. I’m hooked. I’ve always believed in ghosts and magic. I like the idea that there are things in this world that we haven’t figured out yet. Awfully boring otherwise, right? And that tape becomes an obsession. I listen to it over and over. I start categorizing the sounds. I start researching on my own. And now, all these years later, I finally get to go out and try my luck. It’s taken me a while to feel comfortable telling people about this, because I’m not crazy or stupid. But man, if I could get a recording, or even better, a picture. I know chances are slim. But I have to try anyway.
So, into the woods I go.
There are five of us in the group. Me and Dan, who’s only coming along because he says I can’t be trusted to not freeze to death. Laura, for her camera. Ryan – he’s searching, too, and he’s good with maps. And Scott. Because he didn’t have anything better to do. We’re loading up the car now, and I’m stealing a minute to write this. I should go help. And then we’re off!
Will write more when I can.
September 16, 2022 (8:30 a.m.)
Night one was…less than successful. First of all, it rained. It rained from the time we got into the woods to the time we woke up this morning, and now it’s foggy and gray.
We couldn’t have recorded anything if we wanted to. We couldn’t make dinner. Which is fine, because we packed granola bars and such. But still, just not the night we wanted.
And the rain plays tricks on your ears. Scott freaked himself out thinking he was hearing popping and cracking sounds around our campsite, and then he freaked the rest of us out, too. Convinced something was going to ambush us and eat us in the middle of the night. We all know better, but it is disconcerting to listen to rain splatter everywhere and to know it’s impacting what else you can hear. Or rather, what else you can’t. It’s easy to think something’s there when it’s not. For Ryan and me, I think that might actually be exciting, but for the others, I think they’d rather not think about it.
Otherwise, an uneventful night. Hopefully the fog clears and we have better luck today.
In the meantime, I’ve started recording what I think are the standard conditions out here, at least as I can see them. Lots of twigs and leaf cover on the ground, rocky and uneven. Caves up on the hills. Might be worth exploring a few of those, just in case. It’s mostly quiet around here now, the calm after the storm, so to speak.
One major area of interest: There’s lots of mud near the river now. Could be a great place to find tracks.
September 17, 2022 (8:00 a.m.)
The fog never cleared yesterday, but today it’s sunny and bit warmer. It was frustrating to lose a day, though. I suggested we walk along the river and look for any signs there. Now all of our boots are covered in mud and Dan thinks I’m a crazy person.
Morning now, and so we’re trying to get an early start. I’ll come back to this later with any updates.
September 17, 2022 (7:00 p.m.)
Okay, so Dan’s actually really mad at me, and Scott’s being a weirdo. He’s insisting he saw tracks in the mud. I looked – I was hoping he was right – but honestly they just looked like puddles to me. Ryan looked, too, and wasn’t sure either way, and Laura snapped a couple of pictures, just in case. I told Scott there are lots of animals in these woods that we’re not searching for, and to just let it go.
Dan’s upset about his boots, and he’s also frustrated that I didn’t bring any wool socks. And he’s not wrong. I totally forgot. He’s loaned me his second pair, which means he doesn’t get dry socks. I feel bad. I don’t know. We’ve only got two more nights out here, and that’s counting tonight. We’re heading home on Monday. I think we’ll be fine.
In a bit of bad news, though, it’s starting to rain again. Hopefully it passes soon and we’re able to head out for an hour or so later this evening to do some searching in the dark. We’ve not had any luck during the day, so maybe we’ll do better at night?
September 18, 2022 (2:30 a.m.)
No dice on the night search. The rain won’t let up. And Scott’s convinced he’s hearing something out in the woods. He says it’s following us. It’s making everybody nervous, even Ryan. I thought he’d be interested, but he says we’d be better to leave it along, whatever it is. Dan thinks I’m being mean to Scott. Laura thinks Scott’s being paranoid, but I’ve seen her looking over her shoulder. I kind of can’t believe it. Dan, Laura, and Ryan are all pretty experienced hikers, so I didn’t think this would be a problem. I’m over here fuming, honestly, because this is so dumb, but I think maybe we all just need to get some rest. It’s not a been a great day, and we’re tired, but it won’t help anything to just sit here and scare ourselves and be irritated with each other.
This is not the experience that I wanted.
September 18, 2022 (5:00 p.m.)
Scott, Laura, and Ryan have all packed up and left. They’re going to hike to the closest town and catch a ride from there. So it’s just Dan and me. I love that man. He’s annoyed as hell, but he’ll stick with me. And at least Ryan left us his map.
Anyway, the others are leaving because this morning, when we woke up, there was a massive tree branch right outside of our tents. Like, right outside. I don’t know how it didn’t fall and kill all of us. Scott is convinced it was “the Bigfoots.” That’s what he’s been calling them. I’m not sad to see him go. I pointed out that it was just bad luck, that the rain’s been really heavy. But the others said it doesn’t matter. It’s clearly not safe out here right now, and it’s better to leave.
I don’t disagree with them. And I’m worried about Dan’s poor, wet feet. But it’s only one more night. We’re out of here tomorrow morning. I just don’t even feel like I’ve really had the chance to do what I came here to do. I haven’t searched any of the caves. I haven’t been able to record anything. I just can’t leave yet, not while I still have a chance.
The weather’s dried out. My plan is to head out tonight after dinner and bring the recorder and a camera. If I don’t find anything, then fine. I won’t be the first. But I can’t just give up.
September 18, 2022 (11:00 p.m.)
I’m stealing a minute because we heard them! Or, we heard something. I think it was a Bigfoot. Dan thinks it was a bear. But I got it on tape! And we’ve definitely been hearing some popping and cracking sounds out in the woods – maybe now that Scott’s not whining about it, I can hear it better? – so I think we might finally have some luck! I’m planning to check out some caves in the morning before we leave. But for now, I’m going to stay up, listen, and hope I get something good.
September 19, 2022 (1:00 a.m.)
I’m probably an idiot. I’m out in the woods. I’m taking a breathing break. But I can hear them. They’re out here. They’re close. I actually think I heard one of them following me. It almost sounded like it took a step for every step I took. Maybe it’s unwise, but I’m taking this chance, just hoping to get a picture. It’s true that I don’t have Laura’s awesome camera, but maybe I’ll get lucky enough to score something. Fingers crossed!
September 19, 2022 (9:00 a.m.)
We’re supposed to pack up and head back morning, but it’s pouring down rain. Pouring. I did manage to poke my head into a couple of caves last night, which was not the smartest thing to do, and I didn’t find anything anyway. But at least I’ve got the recordings.
We went to bed at about 3:00 last night, and when we woke up, I swear it looks like our tent is just in a whole different spot. It’s just the rain, I know.
Dan’s thinking maybe we should just wait out the weather. We’ve got enough supplies for one more night, and we’d both rather be safe than injured. I can’t lie – I’m elated after last night, and hoping that if we do stay, we’re able to get some real, definitive evidence.
Dan’s sick of wet feet.
September 19, 2022 (3:00 p.m.)
Well, we’re definitely not going anywhere today. We’ve packed up, and we’ve been trying to figure out where we are, but I swear, things just look different in the rain. It’s so foggy and damp, and it keeps pouring and then misting. Dan’s so frustrated. He can’t figure out WHY he can’t figure out where we are. We can’t even find the river. I’m a little scared, but I trust him, and he knows what he’s doing. I figure, If nothing else, we can set up camp tonight and try again in the morning, hopefully after the weather lets up. For now, we’re stopping and resting. It’s useless to just tire ourselves out for no reason.
I haven’t said anything, but I swear, I think Scott got into my head. I hear stuff. I hear stuff and I’m worried and I think it’s just the stress of being a little lost. I should be excited, because I swear I saw something big and hairy out of the corner of my eye as we were trying to figure out where we could set up. But I think it was just a tree. I think I’m just tired. I’ll probably write more later. Maybe the rain will let up and I can get in one more good night.
September 19, 2022 (8:00 p.m.)
We’ve eaten dinner, and Dan says we’re not going anywhere tonight. No searching. No recording. Just sitting, safe and quiet, in our tent. He’s convinced there’s a bear in the area, and it’s safest to stay where we are. I kind of hope it’s just a bear at this point. I was excited, but I’m feeling a little…stalked? I can’t think of the right word. But I’ve definitely felt some kind of shift in the air. I’m ready to go home. I’m going to turn in early, and hopefully in the morning, we’ll get out of here quickly.
************
September 20, 2022 (2:30 a.m.)
They’re hunting us.
************
Thank you for reading! This is the ninth of twelve stories I’ll write for my 2023 Short Story Challenge. The theme this year is: Wild.
Here are the first eight, if you’d like to read them:
I hope you join me and write some stories of your own this year! It’s fun, and I hope this will be a happy year full of good stories. But just reading is fine, too, and I’m glad you’re here.
The next story will be posted at the end of October.
Between the moon and stars and me, I see endless possibilities, a path of many ways. In that quiet when the rest of the world sleeps, there’s the time my mind can play: scraps of paper filled with stories, starts and ends and lovers meeting, a thousand little pauses of sound and silence. This is my trade – and it’s a fair one, I think – rest for writing and creating instead of bed, It’s just a different kind of dreaming, to be awake in that space flanked by dusk and day.
I’ve never felt more sure and steady. (Not that I’m asking for trouble or tears…) Yes, for the first time this year, I think… no, I know – I feel totally ready.
*I’m apparently making a habit of this. Here’s August’s short story, a little late but hopefully an enjoyable read. I aspire to not be late with September. We shall see.*
It started with the old church piano. I’m not sure how it made its way to our house, but one stormy, late summer day, it arrived via Mr. McCoy’s red and white pickup truck.
“A little serendipitous, isn’t it?” My mother stood in the doorway, watching Mr. McCoy and my father unload it. “It’s been raining all day, and that instrument gets here right as it stops.”
“Mmmm,” I answered, through a mouthful of cherry popsicle.
My sister said nothing. This was not unusual, as Callie hardly ever talked. She could, and sometimes at night, we’d sit together in our room and talk for hours. But she seldom wanted to. She told me once that most people talk too much and don’t say anything. I think I was probably one of those people, and I was fine to fill the silence in her place.
The day the piano came changed everything.
We didn’t have much room in our house, and so my mother decided the piano would sit in the dining room, scrunched against the back wall right behind the table. That first night, Callie stared at it all through dinner. Hard not to, given that it was massive and dark and made that back wall look a little like a cavern. But Callie looked curious, not concerned. At least, to me she did, and I’d like to think I knew her best.
“You can try it out,” my father told her. “Won’t do anybody any good if nobody plays it.”
She nodded.
“If you like it, maybe Mrs. Mavis down at the church can teach you to play.”
Callie nodded again.
As it would turn out, she didn’t need any help at all.
We all turned in that night at about 9:00. Callie went straight to bed, her back to me, and I sat at my desk in the corner of our room, working on a story about an old man I’d talked to outside of the general store. That was the thing with talking – people tell great stories. But Callie didn’t look at the world quite like me, and that was fine. I liked to think about her, to consider what she might be feeling. I liked figuring her out, I guess, and I was good at it.
Sometime later, hours maybe, I heard a rustle from Callie’s side of the room.
“Callie?” I whispered.
I got no answer. At first. Minutes later, I heard the distinct tink, tink, tink of one of the highest piano keys. Then the deep bellow of one of the lowest. I rolled out of bed and made my way downstairs, and in the darkness of that tiny dining room, saw Callie’s back, stick straight. There on the piano stool, for the first time in my life, and in hers, I’d wager, my sister looked right at home. I didn’t say a word. I just stood there in the dark, and watched her plink away. I’m sure my parents heard her, too, but they didn’t get up, and that morning, no one said a word.
I don’t much believe in magic, but I’ll say this: Whatever’s out there in the universe, whatever force exists to make me, me and you, you, it made Callie for music.
Every night for weeks, she’d tiptoe down the stairs, and she’d sit and plink.
“Driving me crazy,” my father would say.
“We should put her in lessons,” my mother would reply.
But Callie didn’t want lessons. She’d shake her head, fast and hard, anytime either one of them offered to take her.
“Why in the world not?” My mother finally asked her one night, whether out of frustration or curiosity I can’t say.
Callie didn’t answer at first. She just stared ahead. And then finally, slowly, she said: “I like the way I feel when I play.”
My mother shook her head – that was exasperation – and trudged into the kitchen to start dinner. But I understood, or, at least, I understood about as well as anybody.
“You feel free when you play, don’t you?”
Callie nodded.
“Like nobody can tell you what to do.”
She nodded again.
“That’s how I feel when I’m writing.”
Callie smiled, and we both went up to our room to do homework.
It was really as simple as that, in the moment. Whatever skill Callie developed at that piano, it would belong to only her. I was a little jealous, truth be told. Teachers were always picking apart my stories, looking for spelling mistakes and grammar errors. But sitting at the old church piano, Callie could be free. And free she was, like an animal in the forest, like a bird in flight. When she played, the rest of the world drifted away for her, and she went somewhere else.
Callie never talked much, but she played.
She played and played, and days became months became years. And as she played, she learned. She could read a page of music like I could read a page in a book, and I have no idea how she figured that out. The marks looked like chicken scratch to me. And she could create her own songs, too, sitting in the dim light on Sunday afternoons, just enjoying the intervals between sound and silence.
I asked her once, just flat out asked, how she decided what notes went with the others, and how she wanted the song to sound.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It just kind of comes to me, I guess.”
“Do you ever write it down?”
“No,” she answered. “Then it wouldn’t belong to me anymore.”
“My stories still belong to me,” I told her.
“In a way,” she said. “But they also belong to the people who read them.”
She was right, of course, though I’d never thought about it that way before. But I wish she’d written down just one song, even just a portion of one song, because when we were eighteen and just about to graduate from high school, Callie died.
I don’t know how else to say it. It’s strange how people sugar coat dying. She was alive one day, and then she wasn’t, and the silence in our house became unbearable. Callie never talked much, but her quiet was a calm quiet. Her music was her voice. And in her absence, in her place, this new quiet felt heavy and hard and sharp around the edges.
“This house just feels different now,” my mother said
It got to all of us, eventually. My father kept the television on. My mother sat by the radio in the kitchen.
“It’s something,” she said. “It not enough, but it’s something.”
And I – I suffered. My escape had always been my writing, but writing’s quiet, too, and I suddenly found that I just couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand sitting alone at my desk with only my own thoughts ringing in my ears, surrounded by Callie’s absence and the unbearable stillness she left behind.
And then one night, I’d had enough. I lay in the dark, in the room that now belonged to only me, and I thought, well, there’s only one thing for it, isn’t there?
I tiptoed downstairs to the dining room, and I sat on Callie’s piano stool. My hands shook, but I forced my fingers to the keys, and just like Callie had, all those years ago, I plinked. First the highest notes, then the lowest. Then some in the middle, and then a few together. And finally, I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders, felt my jaw unclench for the first time in weeks.
I will never be the musician that Callie was, but I’ve kept that piano all these years, and I sit down every day, and I play. When I play, it’s like a piece of her sits with me. And in the intervals between sound and silence, I can almost feel her there, whole and solid and alive again.
************
Thank you for reading! This is the eighth of twelve stories I’ll write for my 2023 Short Story Challenge. The theme this year is: Wild.
Here are the first seven, if you’d like to read them:
I hope you join me and write some stories of your own this year! It’s fun, and I hope this will be a happy year full of good stories. But just reading is fine, too, and I’m glad you’re here.
The next story will be posted at the end of September.
Today, I could say I wish you well, and in a way, I do. I wish you a full well, and flowing rivers, babbling streams and shoes sopping wet with rain. I wish you well, and so I wish you water. I wish for you green, green grass and heavy, rustling leaves. I wish you clouds and fog, evening storms and drizzles in the morning. I wish you water. I wish water for me, too.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 