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From Behind the Handlebars

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JUNE 2015 064

Having donned the persona of Biker Granny at the age of sixty, I have traveled miles of roads with the wind in my face. On such journeys I quickly learned to live in the moment–to experience the bend and sway of the road beneath my wheels–even as I cast my eyes forward to the road ahead.  What lay behind, I learned, is of less concern than how I ride my bike right now. The curves and bends; the potholes and the sudden patches of gravel that I have ridden through have shaped my riding, but are now past.   what moment waterfalls imagequote

 

The other lesson imparted when I donned my helmet and revved my bike was to celebrate every hill, every curve that I conquered. It was with those skills that I could face the mountains that seemed so impossible before.

ELEVEN THOUSAND FEET ESTES

Don’t worry about the bridges that lay ahead; nor the strong, gusty winds that blow across them. Such worry will not calm the wind. And, perhaps, when I reach that bridge the winds will blow gently upon me.

Coos Bay Bridge

The Birth of a Novel

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Books grow from many things—life experiences, family, friends, things heard on the radio or read in a newspaper. Even an especially moving piece of music can seed a story within a writer’s mind. In my life, five major incidents occurred that have seeded many stories and grown many characters over the years.

  1. My grandfather’s death
    At nine years old you don’t give much thought to death. Not until a garage door swings open and Death sprawls at your feet in the form of the battered body of a young woman. Inside the garage, my grandfather sat upright behind the wheel of his old, green Chevy. The police claimed it was a murder-suicide and laid the case to rest on the unoccupied passenger’s seat of my dead grandfather’s car, the car with a half a tank of gas and the engine shut off inside a concrete block garage with no entry save the big double doors that the police had to cut the heavy duty padlock off in order to open.
    How easily they wrote my grandfather’s life off. Being poor and living in our part of town didn’t rate much of an investigation when you died, however violently and under whatever suspicious circumstances.
  2. Alley rapist
    Fast forward: late teens, Columbus, Ohio. Taking a shortcut through a dimly lit alley. From a ramshackle garage without its door, a man rushed out, grabbed my arm and jerked me close. “Hey, baby, ya want some, don’cha?” He grabbed his crotch and let go of my arm. I stumbled. While off balance, his fist smashed into my face. I hit the ground and scrambled back up, lip bleeding; nose bleeding. The yellow light of the streetlamp reflected off a glimpse of metal. Instinctively, I threw my arm up in front of my face. Hot pain sliced through my hand. Blood poured from the gash. A fat man on a second floor balcony yelled out, “Wha’ da fuck goin’ on down there?”
    My assailant backed a few steps away, then casually swung around and walked off. I staggered to the nearest house with a light on in the downstairs window. The elderly woman let me in, doctored the gash on my hand, and phoned the police. Taken down to the nearest police station, where I was treated to several hours of aggressive questioning about why I was in that alley at that time of night.
  3. My Mother’s Abrupt Leaving
    In January, 1973, a few months before my twentieth birthday, my mother complained of an oncoming migraine headache and left work early. After a fried pork chop dinner that evening, she sipped her coffee then with the headache ramping up, went off to bed. Within an hour, the migraine engulfed her in agony and she was rushed to the emergency room. By the time she arrived, she had slipped into a coma.
    Four days later, my mother, having never regained consciousness, died.
  4. The Fun Times of Being a Lesbian—not so much.
    –I returned to Seattle in 1989 and landed a job with a medical facility. A number of months into the job, when I insisted that my life partner needed the coverage afforded to married couples as I was working in a section of the facility with a high risk to carry home a contagion, I was told homosexual couples did not rate the coverage. Unable to afford the medical costs if I did drag a contagion home, I refused to work in that part of the facility. I was fired.
    –Capitol Hill in Seattle felt like a haven to me after having been in the Deep South–a place where my life partner and I could walk together without fear. Until the night that a woman was waylaid outside of a lesbian bar and three men began beating her with clubs. If the women inside the bar had not heard the commotion and rushed into the fight, the woman would have been beaten to death.
    –Being an out lesbian among one’s colleagues isn’t always easy or acceptable; not even when we were all supposed to be counselors for the addicted. When I told a male colleague that his inappropriate lunchroom “joke” was offensive, he brushed aside my concern with “Hey, lighten up. It’s just a joke.”
    When I insisted ‘just a joke’ or not, it wasn’t funny and it wasn’t appropriate, silence fell among my lunchroom colleagues so hard it nearly gave me a concussion.
    After that my colleagues avoided both of us, saying they “didn’t want to take sides”. My direct supervisor called me in and told me I was “Half the problem”.
    Eventually, the man was fired, but not for his homophobic and inappropriate behavior.

    rights-vs-fears

Scenarios, such as these, continue to occur with frightening regularity. Poor people are murdered with little or no investigation launched into their deaths; rapists freely walk streets while women have to be ever-vigilant; loved ones die without warning; a person can suddenly wind up on the wrong side of violence; and civil rights for LGBTQ people sometimes seems like a far off dream to me.

Words have power, incredible power. With words we can destroy people or build them up; we can paint injustice with a whitewash brush, or we can shine a stark light upon it. It is my hope that my words, my novels, will shine a stark light into very dark corners.

old-woman-gonekindle2

Old Woman Gone, A Special Crimes Team novel: Who would kidnap an 85-year-old witch?

The More Things Change….

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June is Pride Month. In honor of Pride Month, I’d like you to meet a special lady: Barb Hensen. Though Beyond the Silence, and Barb Hensen, are fictional and we are no longer in 1988, the situation in this book echoes what many lesbian mothers face even in today’s world: the loss of their children.

Barb Hensen grew up in the Deep South surrounded by a deadly silence–no one spoke of the violence in their midst. Raised to fulfill her family’s expectations, she marries young and has a daughter. When the horror of her marriage becomes intolerable, alcohol, drugs, and anorexia help her escape. Until the day Yona Adohi drives into her life.

Through her friendship with the lesbian Yankee, Barb begins the journey of self-discovery. Punished by her husband for defying him in her quest for who she might become, suicide becomes the only viable alternative. When the suicide attempt fails, Barb must make a difficult decision: go against her family and divorce; or remain in an abusive marriage and die.

Barb leaves her marriage. In retaliation, her ex-husband uses the biased court system and takes back the custody that he originally was happy to relinquish. Now Barb is faced with an impossible decision–give up her life, or give up her child. She turns to Yona for help.

To meet Barb Hensen, go to https://www.amazon.com/Beyond-Silence-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B01ADRQ0K8

In Every Challenge….

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Face tomorrow imagequote - Copy

In every challenge lies an opportunity to grow. As we face the spread of Corona Virus, we each need to decide how we will cope with this deadly disease.

We can ignore it.
To ignore this pandemic is to callously decide to endanger not only our own health, but the health of everyone with whom we come into contact.

We can worry, escalate our fear to paranoid proportions, and hoard.
When we choose this option, the stress makes our bodies much more open and vulnerable to not only corona virus, but to other bacterial and viral infections. We also become more susceptible to depression. Racing out to stores and buying up more of everything or anything than we need, we then force others to do without while we increase our own stress by spending money we can’t afford to spend for things we don’t really need or don’t really need that much of. (NOTE: Toilet paper doesn’t keep you from getting corona virus. Although, the hoarding of toilet paper seems to be a worldwide obsession.)

Or:
We can evaluate our personal position with regards to money, food, other necessities, and income. After an evaluation, we can then make lists of what we need to do to address our personal issues and prioritize that list.
Some of the things that need evaluation are:
–Medical issues/prescriptions
–Money–what we have on hand, in accounts, and income that may be affected by the virus, such as our jobs. What bills are coming due? Can we pay less on those bills and thereby keep more money on hand for other necessities?
–Food. What food do we have on hand, what foods do we need that will keep for indefinite periods of time? What kind of meals can we prepare that are healthy and tasty? Have we also stocked up on a FEW treats? Comfort food has been found to help people during times of stress. Just don’t overdo it! Or you could negatively impact your health.
–If we have children, what can we do to entertain them while they are housebound? How can we continue their education while the system is disrupted?
–If we have elders that are not living with us, how can we insure that they continue to have enough to eat? That they can pay for necessary things such as prescriptions, food, heat, and so forth? How can we check up on them to be certain that they are not in need of medical interventions? This is especially true of elders who are not connected via social media.
–Because we are human, we are also social creatures. How can we continue making necessary social connections during this time of social distancing? Can we phone? Email? Facebook? When we network, we lessen our feelings of isolation and often relieved depression. We can kick ideas back and forth.
–Others also need us. What can we do to reach out, safely, to others in our community that may need physical assistance; who may be living alone and feeling the pinch of isolation?
Facebook is wonderful. We can share thoughts, ideas, and encouragement. Reach out to others to let them know we are all in this together. Use it wisely! Do not spread rumors. Fact check what you put out there.

Once we make these lists, we can make and prioritize our actions. One of our actions may be to write up a menu for the next week. Begin that project you’ve been putting off because you’ve been too busy. Start a garden. Phone an elder to do a health and wellness check.
Of course, no list is going to help us make it through these troubled times if we don’t take action. Action increases our feelings of control and well being. So ask yourself—what actions am I going to take today in response to the CoVid-19 Challenge?

Some more things to do:

butterfly

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Rainbow Walker’s Trail Guide

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light in darkness

Remember:
Tenacity

If you don’t give up, you might be surprised to find encouragement and support all around you. People reach out. That is a fact of life. If we don’t close ourselves off; if we are honest about our lives; if we are willing to do whatever it takes to walk that next mile, no matter how rocky or difficult, there will be people along the way who will reach out to us.
no distance too far

THINGS TO DO:
Sit down and decide what actions you can take that will alleviate your situation. Don’t look for fast fixes! Be prepared to go the extra mile.

When someone reaches out to you, accept their encouragement and thank them for caring. Such gifts are priceless in our busy world.

Once you are able to do so, pay-it-forward. Reach out to someone else who needs encouragement.

And never, never, never, ever give up!

NO matter what, remember……….
onlydreamsrealized

The Day of the Deer

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My momma’s a quiet person. Even when I’ve asked her about her growing up, she just shrugged and said no one’s childhood is ever perfect. One thing that’s always been real clear though—Momma hates guns. Since Grandpa died last summer, his old .45’s been gathering dust on the top shelf of Momma’s closet.

That’s why I never expected Momma to do what she did. But, I guess, I’m getting ahead of myself. Momma’s always reminding me to start at the beginning of things. Sooo….

The weekend before it happened, I’d just turned twelve. It wasn’t like anybody could tell by looking at my bean-pole self. I didn’t even have to wear a bra, yet. Momma kept telling me not to fret ‘cause she developed late, too. Mostly it was fine by me. I had too much to do to worry about boys.

That day I was out back of our old brick house, calling for Gimp. He’s the mutt Momma scraped up off the highway earlier that summer. When he came limping up, I grabbed a hammer and a plastic jar of nails then set off for the plywood shed Momma and me had started building a few days ago. I’d been horse-crazy, according to Momma, since I could first talk; but, grocery clerks don’t make much and horses are pretty expensive to buy; and to keep. Now, climbing between the salvaged boards of the four-rail horse fence, I slowly edged my way towards the bay filly with the white star on her forehead. I could see her trembling when I was halfway across the small paddock.

Ever since early spring, Momma had been watching the filly. The farmer who owned the filly lived five miles up the road, right on Momma’s route to and from Donnelson’s Grocery. By August, the last weeds in the field had been eaten. The filly had never had much meat on her bones, and when the fall rains arrived, she soon stood knee deep in muck.

Momma and me was coming home from shopping that afternoon when she wheeled into that farmer’s driveway. She ordered me to stay in the truck, but I rolled down my window to listen. Momma wasn’t shouting, but there was something so strong in her voice that it carried across the crisp September air.” You can either sell me that poor little horse, or I swear I’ll call the animal welfare folks and keep after them ‘til they’re pounding on your door.”

The farmer pulled a raggedy red bandana from the hip pocket of his dirty coveralls. Loudly blowing his big nose, he eyed my momma then stuffed the bandana back into his pocket. “I can let ‘er go for fifty dollars. Cash money.”

“Fifty dollars!” Outrage filled Momma’s voice. “I’m not giving you more than thirty dollars for that poor creature and I want a halter and a lead rope, too. By all that’s right, you should be paying me for taking that starving animal off your hands.”

I held my breath. Then, in case it might help, I crossed my fingers, too.

“Wellll….,” the farmer drawled. With an abrupt swing of his arm, the head of the ax he’d been leaning on thunked into the chopping block. “Ya gonna haul ‘er outta ‘ere on that?” He shoved his bristly chin at our truck.

Momma pulled her wallet out of her back pocket. “My daughter and I will walk her home.” We stalled her in our garage. Every day, I hand grazed her on the lawn while we built a pasture fence.

Running my hands down her still brittle-coated sides, it seemed like wearing last year’s school clothes and eating beans and corn bread a lot more often was a pretty fair trade. I was still telling the filly that when her ears pricked up. I turned in the direction she was staring and then I heard them. I stared up towards the brown hill that sloped across that back of the twenty acres Grandpa’s left us. A slender doe staggered into sight. Even from where I stood, I was certain a red stain spread across her shoulder, leaking down her foreleg. She bounded clumsily away moments before two orange-hatted bow hunters trailed onto our property.

“Momma!” I yelled. As I scrambled towards the house, the back door banged open.

Momma’s feet pounded across the wooden porch floor. “Hey! Get off my land!” Her voice rang across the autumn afternoon.

The hunters stopped and turned toward Momma. The heavier man shouted back as they turned to continue tracking the deer, “That’s our deer.”

“I said to get off my land! Now!” Grandpa’s .45 boomed.

The hunters froze then slowly turned toward Momma. “Lissen, lady, back off. My arrow’s marked that deer.” Arrogance echoed in his words.

The .45 barked again. The shot kicked up dirt in a bare patch a few feet ahead of the hunters. “Next time it won’t be the ground that I shoot.” Momma’s voice didn’t sound nothing like her. The hard edge sent shivers down my back.

The shorter man gestured toward Momma, hands waving, obviously arguing with his friend. Finally, they turned and hurried back the way they’d come.

Momma strode up the hill, her booted feet measuring each blue-jeaned stride. Stopping where the hunters had stood, she gazed down a moment then jogged away. It wasn’t long before I heard the gun boom again. Just once.

I waited for Momma by the porch steps. When she sank down on the top stair, she stared toward the pens where the raccoon we’d patched up from an arrowhead infection and the raucous crow whose BB gun broken wing had never healed quite right now lived.

Momma looked back at me. Her storm-gray eyes filled with tears. “Wasn’t anything else I could do.” A heavy sigh filled the still air. “She was so beautiful.”

And my momma who never cried, buried her face in her hands and wept.

katrina animalsouls - Copy

The Accident

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I don’t know why I stopped that late spring night. Since then, I’ve sometimes wished that I had accelerated a bit, like several others did. Maybe there’s something about having been given your life back by someone else that makes it a debt you have to re-pay. I don’t know. Late at night, I think about these things. Grandmother says it’s a teaching on my earth journey. One I could’ve done without, in my opinion.
It was the edge of dark and a light mist had started the hour before. It hadn’t rained for a while, so the roads were slick as slug slime. The accident occurred where Route 405 North splits. Two lanes go toward Monroe/Woodinville and two lanes go toward Seattle. A horrible screech shattered the night. Metal slammed into metal. Metal ground against immovable concrete barriers. I hit the brakes while I did a quick rearview mirror check to assure myself that I wasn’t about to become part of this deadly marriage of vehicles.
A nanosecond convinced me I was safe. I whipped my truck up tight against the barrier and slammed it into park. Brakes screamed. Horns blared. Headlights dodged across lanes in a macabre dance of near-death. I raced back the way I’d come.
Black, oily smoke roiled from under the semi. The growing stench of rubber and grease choked me. The semi-truck’s front end had torn through the back end of the passenger van. As I reached the crumpled mass, flames woofed out of under the twisted metal.
The semi-truck’s driver fell out of his cab then staggered to his feet. I grabbed his arm and shoved him toward my truck. With him stumbling out of danger, I yanked on the driver’s door of the van. Locked! The driver slumped over the wheel.
Adrenaline lent speed to my feet as I ran back to my truck and snagged a tire iron. Flames swayed like demon snakes above the van’s rear by the time I hammered a hole big enough to shove my hand through the jagged glass. Black smoke billowed in a column that backlit the flames. Air burning my throat, I wrestled the door open. A quick scan of what I could see of the van’s back end convinced me that the driver was the sole occupant. I pressed and pulled but the seatbelt had jammed. Cursing, I flicked open my pocket knife and hacked at the touch fiber. At last, it popped apart.
Grams tells me I’m built like a warrior. That’s a nice way of saying I have broad shoulders, heavy bones and, instead of curves, I have muscles. When I yanked this guy from under the steering wheel, he nearly took me to the ground. He topped out above my five-foot-eight by several inches and outweighed my hundred-fifty pounds by at least another forty. Desperation lent me strength. I wrapped my arms around his upper body and dragged as fast as I could stumble backwards.
I’d always thought it was Hollywood hype on the movies when folks threw themselves on top of other folks to protect them from explosions. Maybe it’s instinct. Flying glass and small shards of metal shredded the back of my heavy leather jacket. Finally, I stood up. The wail of sirens tore the drizzling curtain of rain.
After giving my statement to the police, I wiped my face on a towel from the toolbox in back and cautiously pulled away from the nightmare. When my hands stopped shaking, I phoned Grandmother. “Hey, Grams, I’m gonna be late for dinner. Tell you why when I get there.”
A couple of weeks later, I crossed the sidewalk in front of my apartment building and confronted the man I’d saved. He stood up from the apartment building’s doorstep.
People who know me don’t put me and roses in the same thought. I eyed the bouquet of reds ones in his hands like they were a bunch of snakes.
“I’m Reverend John Russell. I wanted to personally thank you for your bravery, Sister. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
Involuntarily, I backed up a step. The last time anyone had put ‘Sister’ and ‘Lord’ in the same sentence I’d lost my home and my mother. Over the years, though, Grams worked hard to teach me to hold my temper and my tongue. I swallowed the flash of anger before I spoke. “Your thanks is acknowledged.”
“I brought these for you.” He stretched his hand with the roses towards me.
I pulled back and reined in the impulse to snap at this white man. “I’m an Indian. I find beauty in the flowers Creator put here in my land. I don’t have any use for dead, imported, hothouse plants.”
“Oh.” He shuffled his feet. The hand with the flowers wilted down to his side. “I came to invite you to All Souls Gather this Sunday. It’s my church. My sermon will be about bravery and what God tells us about it in the Bible.”
“No…” I hurriedly tacked on, “Thank you.”
“My congregation would welcome you. We’re an open door church; a place for people of all races to gather together to worship Him.”
I lifted my eyes from the floor and locked onto his. They were the deep blue of the sky after a cleansing rain. Eye contact is something I mostly avoided, much to my white mother’s dismay. I could still hear her scolding, “Look up here. I wanna to see your eyes when you’re talkin’ to me! You gotta look people in the eyes or they gonna think you lyin’ to them. You not lyin’ to me, are you?”
Grams explained it to me. Living close together in villages and longhouses, our people didn’t use their eyes to invade another’s privacy. Maybe it’s a trait handed on genetically, or maybe it’s one of the things Dad taught me before he split when I was five. “No. Thanks for coming, but I have things to do. Have a good day.” I started to close the door.
His foot shot out, blocking it. “Please. You saved my life. Let me say thank you with more than just words. Let me take you to dinner, anywhere you say; anytime you say?”
I glared at him. My mouth opened to put a bit of fire to his tail, but Grams voice filled my head. ‘The giving of a gift heals the giver as well as the one who receives it. Do not deny that healing to those who need it.’
Slowly, I let the door swing back open. “Okay. Charlie’s in Ballard. This Friday. I’ll meet you there at six.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“I’ll meet you there, Reverend Russell.”
His smile could’ve been used for a tooth paste commercial. “Okay. Friday at six. And please, call me Jack.”
****
People tell me I’d make a wonderful counselor because I listen. Grandmother says it comes from being part of a people who carry their culture through the oral tradition. Maybe it comes from growing up as an outsider.
At any rate, Jack’s deep musical voice and strong laugh overcame my normal suspicious nature. His humor reminded me of our medicine man, Peacefinder. A gentle, quiet humor that brought chuckles and smiles and, occasionally, a belly laugh.
After dinner we strolled along the docks. Pride shone in Jack’s sky-blue eyes as he spoke of how his congregation welcomed those different from themselves. A small voice in the back of my mind whispered, “What would you think if you knew who I really am?” With a shake of my head, I dislodged my urge to rattle his cage.
Grams often reminded me that ‘warriors choose their fights. They don’t waste energy on hopeless causes and needless battles.’ One night encounters definitely fell into the ‘needless battles’ category. Duty done, relief filled me when we said good-night and got into our own vehicles. He’d been interesting to listen to; yet, somehow Jack made my soul weary from all of the words I would never speak to one such as him.
Two days after our dinner, Jack phoned. I’d done what was required of me, so I let the call go to voice mail. Surely that would discourage his attempts to interact with me. The next day, he phoned three times; each one going to voice mail. The day after that, calls from Jack jammed my voice mail box. Each call sounded more like a thwarted lover than someone I barely knew. Instead of letting my anger respond, I persisted in holding my silence. Grams said that among our people silence was the strongest sign of disapproval of another person’s actions or words.
I’m one of those weird caught-between-worlds people. Dad was a half-breed. I’m a quarter. My heart is Indian, but my outsides look as white as my next door neighbor’s. I’ve never fit into the white world, but the reservation doesn’t want me either. My white mother disowned me. Dad died of exposure, drunk in December, down on First Avenue a long time ago. Consequently, my family consists of Grams and her nephew Peacefinder- -our medicine man. As for friends, I have only two. Grams says I’m wealthy, for a person with one friend is rich.
The second week after dinner with Jack—or ADJ as I called it– as I crossed the sidewalk outside of my apartment building I spotted Jack seated on the top step. Sighing, I stopped one step below where he sat. “What is wrong with you? Can’t you understand that I haven’t called you because I don’t want to be part of your life?”
With a sickly smile, he stood up and held the bag up. “I brought Thai food. I know you work all day, so I thought it’d be nice to have a hot meal you don’t have to prepare.”
I huffed in exasperation, but before I could speak, he hurried on.
“Look, I’m really sorry if it felt like I was being pushy. I…I just want to get to know you better, Jess. What’s wrong with that?”
“Spending time together, getting to know another person, that’s called a relationship, Jack. I’m not interested in a relationship with you.”
“I…I’m not talking about a…a relationship, Jess. Just maybe getting to know you; maybe getting to be friends.”
A frown twisted my brows as I stared at him. “A friendship is one of the most valuable of all relationships. I think you need to go home.” I turned and rushed through the lobby. At the top of the first flight of stairs, I glanced down. Jack stood just inside the door of the lobby, staring up at me. I spun and hurried up the next three flights of stairs to my apartment. All night I kept expecting him to pound on my door. When I slept, I was chased by a white man waving a Bible at me. I ran and ran, but couldn’t lose him.
Two evenings later, Jack sat in front of my apartment door when I returned home from work. How he figured out my apartment is beyond me. No roster downstairs featured my name. Hands propped on my hips, I confronted him. “What are you doing here?”
He shoved up the wall until he towered over me. Eyes red-rimmed, he said, “I had to see you, Jess. God brought you into my life for a reason.”
“You need to move away from my door.”
Before I realized what he had in mind, he lunged toward me. Big hands tightly grasped my shoulders as his lips crashed against mine. He swung me around, pressing me hard against the hallway wall. Hands planted against his chest, I shoved. He barely moved. His tongue roughly shoving against my tightly closed mouth. I jerked my knee up.
His hands abruptly released me as he staggered back. Bent over, hands clutching himself, he stared up at me with a hurt look. “Why…?”
“Don’t ever lay your hands on me again; and, don’t ever come around me. Do you understand?” I didn’t wait for his acknowledgement before I slipped into my apartment and slammed the door.
When I got home the next evening, I found a love letter shoved under my door. It rambled on about how ‘God had called me to his side in his moment of deepest need.’ Apparently, Grams advice about silence had to be modified for stubborn white men. I mailed the shredded letter back to Jack.
The teddy bear arrived next. I guess, Jack figured I couldn’t tear up a two-foot tall, stuffed animal with a red velvet heart. The black felt letters across the heart said, “I Miss U”. The green dumpster against the building wall on the far side of the alley made a great target. I scored a basket with a flying bear.
The third week ADJ, Jack began guarding my front door. After creeping up my fire escape three nights in a row, I climbed through the window, stormed to the door and swung it open. “Come on in, Jack.” Without waiting to see what he did, I stomped into the kitchen and slammed on a pot of coffee.
As he stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, he said, “How’d you get up here?”
“There are ways. Have a seat.” Neither of us spoke again until I poured two cups of coffee and took the chair across the table from him.
“I care about you, Jessica.” Jack declared after the first sip of coffee. “Unless there’s someone else… Is there someone else?”
“No, there isn’t anyone else.” I stirred my coffee, though I drank it black. “You need to let go of this…whatever it is.” I waved a hand between him and me. “I am not who or what you think I am. You need to be thankful for your life and go live it. Just leave me alone, Jack.”
Jack leaned as far forward as the table edge allowed. His big-knuckled hands wrapped around the sturdy ceramic cup. “You say you aren’t who I believe you are. I don’t need you to tell me who you are, Jess. God has already told me. But, let’s say I really don’t know who you are; that I’m wrong. Tell me, Jess, who you are so I can let go.”
Rage flared across my vision, turning it red. I wanted to snap out, hurt this clueless white man as I had once been hurt. “You really want to know who I am? Where I’ve been; what I’ve done?”
Hope danced across his face as he leaned back in his chair. “Yes. I do. I will never believe that you aren’t meant for me; that God has not ordained our relationship unless you convince me that I am wrong.”
In a low sharp voice, I began, “After Dad left, Mom got religion. She dragged me to church twice on Sunday and again every Wednesday for Bible study and every Friday for church socials. The kids in Sunday school laughed and whispered that I was a ‘dirty injun’ and my dad was a ‘stinkin’ drunk injun’.” The hard knot that Grams and Peacefinder had untied from around my guts began tightening its noose again. I drew a deep breath, and told myself that I recited history; nothing more than part of our people’s history. A teaching for the future.
I stopped fighting the ghosts of past pain and let the story carry me back. Back to where the maple struggled to pry apart the littered concrete sidewalk; back to where scabs of greasy exhaust painted the warped wood siding of the house we rented a sick grey. Back to where cardboard stood guard against the cold that seeped through the cracked glass window of my bedroom.
When I spoke again, it was as if I spoke of someone else. “By the time I turned fifteen some of the kids had a new name for me–queer. By then, I’d become a loner, so I didn’t care what they said. Maybe I was naive. Maybe I was like so many kids that age–I couldn’t believe anything really bad would ever happen to me.”
My body sat in my canary yellow kitchen, while my spirit hovered above that shadowed alley and my voice reported the outrage. Hopelessness filled the young girl’s eyes as the three boys held her down. Sharp gravel cut into her thin shoulders. “I couldn’t tell my mother. Not until a month later when I realized I was pregnant. She slapped me. Called me a slut.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Your mother was wrong….” Jack rose partway to his feet.
I held up my hand and cut off his flow of words; waved him back to his seat. “Mom said I must’ve ‘asked for it’ and then she hauled me off to see Reverend Michael J. Richter. He drew an analogy between my standoffishness and the fruit of the forbidden tree. Said I’d seduced those boys by my actions as surely as Eve had seduced Adam by hers.”
I took a long drink of my cool coffee. Ran a hand over my face. “I stood up. In a low voice more terrible than shouting, I told them I couldn’t have asked for it; I didn’t like boys. I was queer.” With my consciousness in the past, I failed to notice Jack’s reaction.
“Mom’s face turned white then red. Her lips pressed together into a thin, bloodless slash. Richter’s face was every bit as red as Mom’s. The first words out of his mouth were ‘God can turn you from your sick perversions.’ I told him I didn’t want to be straight.
“Mom strode over and slapped my face so hard my ears rang. She said, ‘You’re disgusting. You’re no daughter of mine.’ Those were her exact words.” Finally, I turned my eyes back to the present. The color had drained from Jack’s face.
Watching his eyes now, I continued, “That evening when I tried to get in the house, I found the doors bolted. I could hear Mom moving around inside but she never answered, even when I yelled myself hoarse. Two days later I caught her gone long enough to bust a downstairs window. I took the money from her dresser; took some clothes, a sleeping bag, and some food. I never looked back.
“I lied about my age and no one at the Martha Hallinger Clinic pressed me for proof. The abortion wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared. Maybe I had a really understanding doctor and nurse.
“Almost a year later, I woke up half drunk from a two-day alcohol and crack run and found Grams—my dad’s mom–stirring a pan of scrambled eggs over my campfire. After she introduced herself, she didn’t say another word until we’d eaten. She told me to pack up while she cleaned up and put out the fire.” I shook my head, smiled at the images that played across my mind. “Grams was seventy back then. A little bit of an Indian woman high steppin’ it along that dirt path up the hill next to the freeway where I’d been camped.
“Sure that she’d hate me when she found out I was queer, I wanted to get it over with right off. Once we topped the hill, I blurted it out. My grandmother’s wrinkled brown hand cupped my chin as she forced me to look up at her. ‘Granddaughter, two-spirit people have always been a part of Creation. They, and you, are blessed with special gifts for the world.’” I blinked when the sound of Jack’s chair scraped against the linoleum.
Eyes blazing, he stared down at me. “You’re telling me that you are a homosexual?”
I stood up to face him. “Yes. Now do you understand?”
Denial ran across his face as one hand reached toward me. “God can help you. What you proclaim yourself to be, it’s wrong. It’s a sin against the Almighty God. Look…”
He leaned toward me, as if closer proximity would get his message across. “It isn’t your fault. Raised without a father; the way those boys treated you, it is no wonder that this sickness has come upon you. The Bible tells us that love can conquer all adversity. I love you, Jessica. Let me help you heal.”
“You don’t get it, do you? I was born this way. My Creator sees nothing wrong with me.”
He stretched his hands toward me. “I told you that God brought you into my life for a reason. You saved my mortal life, Jess; now, please, let me help save your immortal soul.”
I set my coffee cup on the table and shoved a wayward strand of long dark hair behind one ear. “Reverend, you can’t change me. I don’t want your god. I have my own. I don’t want your way of life. I have my own.” Pity lay heavy on my heart. “I have wounds, but being a lesbian isn’t one of them. I’d like you to leave. Don’t write, don’t phone, and don’t come back.”
I didn’t expect to see Jack after that night. I should have known better. Grams told me that important events always occur in fours.
The night Jack returned weeks later eerily echoed the night I’d pulled him from the fiery wreck. Rain drizzled from a black sky. When I answered the knock on my door, I barely recognized the gaunt man before me. His hair, usually combed, stuck up in several directions. A straggly beard clung to his pasty skin. His eyes had sunk in dark hollows. “Jessica, I have come to let you know that I understand who you are.”
Instinctively, I grasped the door ready to close it. The muscles in my back tightened. My stomach knotted like it did the day those boys attacked me. Still, I stood mesmerized by this shadow of a man I had known. In spite of his ravaged body, his voice held me spellbound.
“I was wrong. God had called me home that fateful night. Satan sent you to pull me from that fiery wreck, so you could steal my eternal soul.”
Suddenly, the weariness left his voice. It rang out in the narrow hallway as if he preached from a great cathedral’s pulpit. “You cannot hold me here any longer! You are Jezebel of whom the Bible speaks.” One thin finger pointed, trembling, at me, “You were sent to twist man’s heart to do Satan’s bidding. I will not allow it! In God’s Book of Life I am dead! I will join my God! You cannot stop me!”
It happened so quickly, I was frozen in place. The report of the gun echoed in my dreams for months. The bright red of Jack’s blood flowed before my eyes at the oddest times. It happened once when I was driving on Interstate 5. I had to pull over until the red haze cleared from my vision. That’s when Grams took me to Peacefinder.
When it came right down to it, our people came through for me. Several of them I didn’t even know stayed for the entire week of healing that I required. Even so, there are still nights when I awaken with the thunder of a gunshot echoing in my mind. Sweaty, heart racing, always I jerk awake, forever reaching….reaching out…never able to stop that which could not be stopped.

Hand of Justice

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On a drizzly September mornin’, James McMurphy, drug ‘n alcohol counselor, was found face down on his desk. Dead. The tip of his pointin’ finger was glued precisely at the end of the last sentence of the last entry of Irma Nelson’s file. Like a period. Three days before McMurphy’s murder, Irma had brought homemade oatmeal cookies to our therapy group. McMurphy went right off the Richter Scale. Ranted that Irma needed to quit takin’ care of others ‘n deal with her own problems. My opinion: Irma was okay. McMurphy was the one brushin’ at imaginary dust ‘n not wantin’ to shake our hands, like we might contaminate him or somethin’. ‘Course, who’s gonna lissen to Sally Whitewater—call me Sal—half-breed Indian.
The next mornin’, Irma was dead. Booze ‘n pills. McMurphy acted like he didn’ do nothin’.
Soon as smoke break came, all of us stood outside in the parkin’ lot, puffin’ our cancer sticks and bitchin’.
Carol Johnson grimaced, twistin’ her model-perfect face into somethin’ ugly. “I feel like using my daddy’s .22 to shoot old, point-a-finger-in-your-face!”
Rita Anders snarled, but it only made her look like a puppy snappin’ at shadows. “I’d like to take that cushion Irma gave me and hold it over Mr.-Don’t-Touch-Me’s face. All the while I’d chant the Serenity Prayer Irma embroidered on it.”
Carol gave a vigorous nod. “You can do that while I shoot ‘em.”
“Yeah,” Ray Perazon chuckled. “You could chant that line about ‘changing the things we can.’”
“This is no joking matter.” Richard Semafore sniffed, then waved a hand to chase cigarette smoke from around him. “Irma was a good woman, a decent human being. McMurphy kept harassing her until he pushed her over the edge. I don’t care what the cops say, McMurphy killed her the same as if he’d poured that alcohol and those prescription drugs down her throat.”
Me ‘n Jeff Georges, my best friend, glanced at the little tax man. Everything ‘bout Semafore drooped, like a newspaper left out in the rain. he pinched a piece of lint from the lapel of his suit jacket. Between thumb ‘n forefinger, he carefully rolled it into a tiny ball that he pocketed.
Carol laced an arm through his. “Maybe someone will give McMurphy what he deserves.”
Rita agreed with a firm nod.
“Now that’s a dream, if I ever heard one.” Bitterness edged his next words. “There isn’t any justice unless you have bookoo bucks. That leaves out all of us as well as Irma.” He glanced at his watch then stomped his cigarette butt into the parkin’ lot. “Break’s over. Best get back before McMurphy calls my probation officer.” Hands in his jean pockets, he left.
****
Walkin’ home after our AA meetin’ the next evenin’, me ‘n Georges noticed Semafore’s brand new Volvo parked in front of Carol’s rundown apartment buildin’. “Huh, I didn’t know they were seeing each other,” Georges said.
I shrugged. “Me neither.”
The followin’ mornin’, someone pounded on my door at seven-thirty. Leavin’ my coffee sittin’ on the kitchen table, I stomped across the livin’ room, ready to read someone the riot act. I yanked open the door and my lip curled. “Whatcha doin’ here, Simons?” Arms crossed, I glared at him.
He stared down his long nose at me like I was some kinda bug he was thinkin’ of squishin’. “I need to come in and ask you some questions.”
“You ain’t spreadin’ your stink in my house. Ask where you are. An’ make it quick. My coffee’s gettin’ cold.”
His eyes squinched shut ‘n I knew he’d whap me a good’n if he could get away with it. Last time he did though, Georges’ attorney friend got me a nice lil’ bit of money from the cops. “Why’d you skip your one-on-one session with McMurphy last night?”
While his beefy shoulders gave a who-cares shrug, his pasty-white face turned red with anger. “You can answer my questions here or at the station.”
“An’ I could sit there waitin’ for my attorney to hand your ass to you again. This time for harassment.” I dished his shrug back at ‘im. Only mine was real. I didn’ give a crap what he thought. “But, hey, I’m reasonable. Judge only sentenced me to four months. Night before last was my final required session.”
He flipped his notebook open ‘n pretended to read. Lookin’ up, he said, “A week after you entered McMurphy’s group, you threatened him. You said, and I’m quoting you, that ‘if he didn’t back off, he might become one of the ghosts of the past.’ What did you mean by that?”
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I was gonna drop outta his group.”
“Yeah, sure.” Simons snorted. “Where were you last night?”
Arms folded across my chest, I said, “What’s all this ‘bout?”
“Just answer the question,” he snapped.
One brow lifted, I sneered. “Depends what time ya talkin’ ‘bout.”
Forehead wrinkled in a scowl, he growled, “Between midnight and five-forty-five this morning.”
“In bed. Asleep. By myself.” My spine stiffened, but I carefully kept my slouch. “Why?”
Eyes locked on my face, he said, “McMurphy’s dead.”
With a shake of my head, I grinned. “If ya waitin’ for me to cry, you’ll be waitin’ ‘til Hell freezes over. All I gotta say is good riddance to bad rubbish.”
Nostrils flared ‘n his cheeks flushed redder than ever. “We found the weapon. A .22, just like the one you shot your ex with.”
“That’s nice.” He’d finally given me what I needed. “So, go question whoever it belongs to.” I shoved away from the wall ‘n let my arms fall to my sides.
“She reported the gun stolen day before yesterday.”
I stepped to the side ‘n took hold of the edge of my door. “Your prob; not mine.”
Eyes narrowed, he held my glare. “We also found a throw pillow with McMurphy’s blood on it. It had the Serenity Prayer on it.”
“Hooray for you.” I began to ease the door shut. “Now all you gotta do is find the owner of the pillow.”
Simons slapped his hand against the door, keepin’ it from closin’. “Your rap sheet has a B and E on it.”
“I was drunk ‘n it was my ex’s place. ‘N I only took what he stole from me first. ‘Sides, I did my time on that ‘n finished up that stupid group thing. You got nothin’ on me.” I cocked my head. “Why you messin’ with me? I wasn’t the only one in that group who hated McMurphy.”
“You’re the only one with a record of real violence. Hell, even Georges’ only knifed a guy. Besides, the crime scene is way too neat to be a man’s work. Men just aren’t that neat. ”
Thinkin’ ‘bout my apartment, I had to swallow hard to keep from laughin’ in Simon’s face. I’ve been accused of lotsa stuff in my life, but neat ain’t never been one of ‘em. With my laugh finally swallowed down, I said, “I was drunk when I shot my ex. He figgered I was the one who broke into his house. He come here ‘n kicked in my door ‘n then beat the Hell outta me. He woulda killed me if I hadn’ shot ‘im. You cops ‘n the judge didn’ seem to care ‘bout that lil’ fact. So, he walked ‘n I went to jail. ‘N you cops took my gun. End of story.”
Simons started to say somethin’, but his radio crackled. Most folks can’ understand the garbled junk that comes from cop radios—especially with all their silly codes—but I’ve lissened ‘nuff in my life that I got it as good as the cops.
Simons mumbled a reply then turned back to me. “I’ll be back to talk to you some more.”
“Yeah, right.” I made sure he saw me roll my eyes.
Georges ‘n me had dinner at his house that night. I told him ‘bout Simons’ visit.
“Hmmph!” Georges grunted. “Was over here early this morning, even before my first cup of coffee. Claimed he knew I’d threatened McMurphy.” He wiped the clean stove top for the fifth time. “Told him that threats go with the territory.” Neatly foldin’ the dish towel into three equal sections, Georges hung it over the towel rack next to the cupboards.
****
It’s been a year now since McMurphy killed Irma. A friend of mine at the cop shop said the cops’ve stuck McMurphy’s murder into the cold case files with a jillion others.
Georges ‘n me went over to Italio Ristorante. When Georges ‘n me got thirty days sober, Irma took us there even though she didn’ have no more money than us. She looked at us so proud; like she was our momma or somethin’. This night we toasted Irma’s life with good food ‘n four pots of coffee—the way most sober drunks celebrate. In the candlelight, I looked across at Georges. “You been pokin’ at McMurphy’s killin’ all this time I was out learnin’ how to be a landscaper.”
“Couldn’t resist.” He refolded the linen napkin then placed it precisely next to his empty plate.
“Let me see if I got this right. Carol reported her gun missin’ but really gave it to Semafore. So, why use Rita’s embroidered pillow?”
Georges moved his plate aside ‘n folded his big hands on the table. “Semafore pulled the trigger, but they all killed McMurphy.” He leaned over his hands. “They increased their risk factors, but they decreased their guilt factor and bolstered the courage factor. The one thing we all learned at AA meetings is that, with a group’s help and support, we can do what we can’t do alone. It’s the premise of getting sober through AA.”
I slowly shook my head. “Why? Why take that kinda risk at all?”
Georges leaned back against the soft leather of the booth. “To stay sober.”
“What!”
“Despair and helplessness inevitably lead to alcohol and drug use. We were all feeling that when Irma died; and, we all knew beyond a doubt that McMurphy would never pay for his sins. He would continue twisting lives and more people would die. They took control of the situation. In their own way they said, ‘we found the courage to change the things we can’ and by doing that, they overcame their despair and conquered their feelings of helplessness. ”
I fell back against the booth. “Why didn’ Ray try to find a way to kill McMurphy? You said we all felt the same kinda feelin’s.”
Georges shook his head. “I wasn’t including Ray. His narcissism is such that unless something directly and negatively impacts him, he will not respond emotionally. He’s all about Ray.”
“What about us?” Sadness clouded Georges’ eyes as he got that thousand mile stare that he sometimes had. I waited, knowing he speak when he was ready.
He blinked then looked at me. “We didn’t lose what they lost. Carol was a throwaway kid. Irma was the mother she never had. For Rita, Irma filled the ache left by Rita’s older sister dying from cancer.” Georges fell silent.
I prodded. “How ‘bout Semafore? He wasn’t even an alky. Just had one too many ‘n got caught drivin’. He shouldna’ve even been in our group.”
Georges gave me a long look. “What have I told you about judging others from their outsides rather than their insides?”
I frowned.
“Semafore lost the most of all of us. I found a photo in Irma’s house. A boy and a girl. Obviously, siblings.”
“You sayin’ Irma was Semafore’s sister?”
He nodded. “I also found a diary. Semafore’s.”
“He kept a diary? I thought that was a girly thing.”
“There you go again, judging someone based on appearances.” He smiled at me though.
“Okay, you found Semafore’s diary and Irma’s photo. Do I want to guess how you found those things?”
With a chuckle, Georges said, “I am a P.I., you know.” He sipped his coffee before he spoke again. “When Irma was nine and Semafore was seven their parents died in a suicide pact. According to Semafore’s diary, he worshipped his big sister, and she loved him just as fiercely. At first, Family Services kept them in the same foster homes. Eventually, however, they were separated and lost touch. Though he’d been searching for years, he never found his sister. Not until he entered alcohol treatment.”
“Holy Goddess,” I breathed out. “If anyone ever finds that photo and that diary….”
Georges smiled. “What photo? What diary?”

January 1, 2020

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First day of your life
1. Today is the first day, not only of the new year, but of the rest of your life.
onlydreamsrealized
2. The only dreams ever realized are the ones we act upon. Don’t let fear of risk overwhelm and destroy your dreams.
Change
3. The only absolute in life is that change will happen; whether we choose what that change will be or abdicate that choice to others.
ChooseToBe
4. The best part of change is that we get to choose what path of change we will take. Shall we be part of the light, or part of the darkness?
CreatorLovesDiversity
5. In choosing our path, remember that Creator loves diversity. Be proud of the person Creator gave you the chance to become; regardless of what the world might say.
Believe
6. Believe in the journey you are embarked upon; believe in yourself.
creator's child
7. And, never, never forget: You are a child of Creator; and, you are worthy.

The Gift

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old dog

THE GIFT

By Aya Walksfar

Sixty-eight-year old Marybelle Brown pushed the rattling grocery cart filled with plastic bags of aluminum cans through the square next to the #Seattle Aquarium. That summer vendors had hawked sparkling necklaces and handmade toys and flamboyant scarves. Now it lay beneath the full moon, deserted except for a few pigeons huddled on a low wall near the water. Moving slowly so she wouldn’t disturb their rest, she made her way over and leaned against the cold concrete. She’d always loved Puget Sound. The gentle lap of the waves soothed her.

After a few minutes, she turned her cart and headed across the empty space. In the center stood a twelve-foot tall #Christmas tree. Red and green lights twinkled amid the plastic ornaments and glittering tinsel. Marybelle gazed up at it, at the star blazing white on the top. At last, she sighed in contentment and moved on.

fuzzy xmas tree

Today had been a wonderful Christmas Eve. She’d found three partially eaten cheeseburgers in one of McDonald’s trashcans. They were stashed in the ragged canvas shoulder bag along with French fries from a dumpster and two, whole pieces of cod from Ivar’s trash. A smile sat lightly on her cracked and chapped lips. Tonight she would feast! She patted the side of the shoulder bag and felt the bottle of Starbucks mocha and the bottle of Arrowhead water that a kind man had given to her with a smile and a Merry Christmas. Yes, tonight she would feast.

She bent her head back and gazed upward. Stars flung across the black heavens. Some people likened the stars to diamonds on black velvet, but she knew better. The stars were all the souls who had gone ahead, smiling down on those they’d left behind. Someday when it was time for her to leave this bent and painful body, she’d fly up there and be with them. Her momma and granny would be waiting. She wondered if the critters she had nursed would be there. Of course, they would! Her granny had told her that the souls of animals always went to the Bright Place because they lived as God intended.

She shuffled along. Time to get to her spot under the viaduct. Thick blackberry bushes hid the hole she’d dug out up against where the concrete met the earth. It had taken her a long time to make a roomy depression in that hard ground with a broken shovel. Hidden at the far back of the hole were all of her most precious belongings, safe from discovery by others, safe from the rain.

She crossed the quiet street and the cart jarred over the trolley tracks. Where cars parked during the day was mostly deserted now and filled with deeper shadows. The fat round concrete pillars that held up the overhead roadway too often hid bad things. She veered away, cornering her eye so she could keep watch while she passed.

As Marybelle came abreast of one spot of darkness a darker shadow moved within it. Her heart leaped into her throat. Her chest constricted with panic and squeezed the breath from her lungs. There! Who’s there? Her feet froze as her mind shouted, “Run!”

Just as her feet started to move, a whimper floated out of that darkness. The loneliness in that small sound dragged at her heart. “Leave, Marybelle. You can’t help whoever it is.”

In spite of herself, her hands left the cart and her feet shuffled toward the darkness. Her heart galloped like a crazed horse. “ Oh, Lord, I feel like my heart’s gonna bust.”

As she drew closer, a stray beam of moonlight shone against the pillar. Crumpled at the base of that cylinder of concrete lay a black dog. It lifted forlorn eyes to her face. The very tip of its tail tapped the ground twice then stopped like that was all the energy the poor thing had.

In her mind the years fell away and she once again saw her momma open the door of their tiny apartment. “Oh, Marybelle, you can’t help every critter you see,” her momma’s gentle hands tending to Marybelle’s latest rescue belied her words. Momma and granny had always tried to save the animals she dragged home–starved and beaten and broken.

She edged closer and the dog cringed, trying to melt into the ground. She knew the feeling. Carefully, she lowered herself to her achy knees. Never looking directly at the dog, she held out a hand. “It’s alright. I know just how you feel.” The dog’s body relaxed and it stretched its black nose toward her hand. “That’s it, little one. Come on over to Marybelle.”

She slid her shoulder bag to the ground then dug around until her hand touched the wrapping of one of the half-eaten burgers. Eyes still averted, she held a small bite on the palm of her outstretched hand. The dog sniffed the air and gave an anxious whine. “I know. It’s scary, but honestly, this is for you.”

The cold seeped through the three pairs of thin pants and chilled her arthritic knees. Still, she knelt there, hand out in offering. The dog stretched its neck toward the food. It crept one step, two steps. Now Marybelle could see the ribs jutting out under the patchy hide.

“Poor thing,” she crooned.

The dog trembled as it came close enough to snatch the food. It took the rest of the burger for the poor thing to creep close enough for Marybelle to put her arms around it. The dog was big, bigger than her German Shepherd had been. She felt the resistance of its stiff body, but kept humming and stroking one hand down its thin side. At last, the tension drained from it and it nestled against her chest.

After a while, she gave its sharp nose a kiss. “Gotta git up, little girl. My knees don’t like this kneeling.” She pulled a ragged wool scarf from around her neck and made the dog a soft collar and leash.

At her hideaway, Marybelle laid out the sleeping bag that a young, white girl had given her that past fall. She never carried this precious gift for fear of it being taken from her. But every night since early fall she’d blessed that child, and wished her well as she fell asleep. The dog immediately curled up on one side, the shivers wracking its body subsiding.

She sat next to the dog and lit the stub of a candle she’d found and saved for a special occasion. This surely was a most special occasion. “We’re safe here, Dog. With all the blackberry bushes around us and being way up under here, no one wants to crawl this far back.” She draped the two blankets she had scrounged from a Goodwill donation box around her shoulders and over Dog’s back.

From her handbag, she took the food and set it on the sleeping bag in front of them. She filled her dented quart pot with the bottled water and set it in front of Dog. She raised her head and drank deeply as Marybelle opened the bottle of Starbucks Mocha Coffee drink. She tapped the bottle against the pot rim. “Here’s to our friendship, Dog.”

Carefully, she divided the hamburgers, the fries, the fish: half for her, half for dog. Dog quickly ate her half, but sat politely, not begging for Marybelle’s food. She took all but one piece of the fish and laid it in front of the gray muzzle. “Merry Christmas, Dog.”

Dog cocked her head and fixed her clouded eyes on the old woman. “Go on, Dog. An old woman like me don’t need so much food. Probably would make me sick to eat all of that. This piece of fish’ll do me just fine.”

Feast over she stuffed the trash in the paper bag and set it to one side. She lay down and Dog cuddled against her chest. With the blankets spread over the two of them and the sleeping bag zipped she draped a sleep heavy arm over the old dog’s side. “This has been a lovely Christmas Eve, Dog. Thank you.”

Singing woke Marybelle. Beautiful singing that called to her. She opened her eyes and got to her feet. Dog leaned her head against Marybelle’s leg. A bridge lay before them. Dog looked up with cataract whitened eyes and whined. She took a step toward the bridge and twisted her gray muzzle over her shoulder as if to say, “Come on.”

The bridge shone like a golden light lit it from within. Marybelle shivered. Fear rose up and wrapped chains around her legs. Dog padded back to her side. She pushed her cold black nose against the palm of Marybelle’s hand and gazed up at her. “Oh, Dog, I know you wanna go that way, but I…I can’t.”

Dog sat next to Marybelle’s leg and sighed. She rubbed the old dog’s grizzled fur and knelt in front of her. Staring into the dog’s dimmed eyes, she cradled the gray muzzle between her knarled and arthritis twisted hands. “I know you want to go that way. And…and it’s probably a good place, Dog. But, I…” she inhaled a deep breath and let it ease from her. “I know it’s a good place, Dog. I can feel it; like I know you can, too. But, I don’t deserve to go there.”

Dog flicked out a warm wet tongue and licked the tears that traced the lines of Marybelle’s weathered face. She pressed her face against Dog’s then kissed her muzzle and stood up. She took a half step away from Dog.

Courage gathered like a tattered garment, she looked into Dog’s eyes. “I can’t go there, Dog. I haven’t been a good person. There’s things…” she glanced away and swallowed the lump in her throat. When she looked back, she blinked away the tears. “There’s things I’ve done; things I’ve said that were wrong. I’ve…I’ve hurt people. Over there,” she raised a thin arm and waved toward the shining bridge. “Over there is for good people, people like you, Dog. Go on. You deserve to be there.” She turned and moved away from the dog.

She’d only gone a few steps before she felt the cold nose against her dangling hand. She squatted next to the dog. “Oh, Dog.” She buried her face in the brittle black fur. When she lifted her face, she hugged the dog and stood. “Looks like you aren’t going to go, if I don’t.” Heart pounding, she gave a slight nod as if confirming her own decision. “I’ll go with you, Dog, because you deserve to be over there.”

Dog pressed tight against her leg as they walked onto the glowing bridge. The golden light enveloped them, warmed them.

Halfway across the bridge Marybelle stopped and gazed over the railing. Below, a broad, placid river flowed. As they drew nearer to the far side, a beautiful meadow ablaze with blue and yellow and orange flowers rolled out as far as she could see. Her eyes rounded.

When they reached the end of the bridge, a melodic voice spoke. “I see you’ve helped her to Cross, Dog. I knew you could. Well done.”

Marybelle raised her eyes and gazed into the milk chocolate face and dark chocolate eyes. “Momma?”

The woman spread her arms and Marybelle ran into them.

The End

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PHOTO CREDITS: Old dog–Anne Lowe Christmas tree–Anna Langova (all-free-download.com)