The Choice

November 30, 2017, Carrot Ranch prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes self-care. Does the character need it? What does the character do? Think about how you can use this action to deepen a character or move a story. Go where the prompt leads.

Respond by December 7, 2017, to be included in the compilation (published December 8). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!


Grief affects everyone differently. There is no rhyme or reason as to how one should deal with grief or loss either. It’s up to the person to come to grips with the passing of those we love. It’s never easy.

I’ve recently been dealing with the passing of my beloved dogs. It’s the loss that is hard to deal with – the starting over and changing one’s reality from what it used to be. I felt lost…

However, I am an optimist always looking forward. What I discovered and what soothed and restored me was meditation. I liken it to healing myself from the inside out. That desire to rebuild and heal prompted this piece. ❤

The Choice

Painful sobs wracked her body while anguished cries escaped from her throat with an unrecognized resonance. She finally understood that death in its malevolence took what it desired leaving an emptiness in its wake. She knew she needed to survive by moving forward or she’d perish.

Nearby, the crystals beckoned to her emitting an ethereal glow. Meditate, they whispered. Align your chakras and feel your healing life force restored. She sat, quieting her breath, slipping into a meditative state. Her breath inhaled the restorative energy while exhaling the grief and loss.

Revitalized by love, she accepted a new path.

Thanks for stopping by. ❤

Spice – The Tiny Dog Who Stole Our Hearts

Spice, Colorado 2017

It is with sad and heavy hearts Ron, and I must share that our beloved Spice left this world Wednesday night. Spice was Ron’s dog mainly, and along with her sister, Sugar, nursed Ron through bladder and prostate cancer. She was loyal and loving and will live in our hearts forever. Our lives were better because of her sweet soul. 

When Ron found her in her crate that morning, her tag had become lodged in the metal grate of the door. It appeared she couldn’t get it loose. She was diagnosed with a collapsed trachea many years ago and at 13 ½ years old, she had been having more problems. In dog years she was 91, spunky, yet frail. I can only hope and pray that her passing did not allow her to suffer.

Both dogs had been crate-trained for ‘sleeping only’ since they were born in Montana. For such an odd thing to occur breaks our hearts. Her sister, Sugar is lost without her. The dogs had only been separated twice for overnight stays at the vet. Sugar suffers from diabetes and is frail too. The first thing I did was take Sugar’s collar and tag off.


Sugar & Spice 2011, Montana

Our pain is inconsolable. We got these two magnificent girls in 2004 when they were 4 months old. Spice was the runt of the litter, and sugar was a roly-poly fluff ball. My husband had only months before undergone radical surgery for bladder and prostate cancer. He spent the days alone while I worked many long hours as a bookkeeper/estate paralegal. I knew the two dogs would require him to get up out of his chair and give him something to care for. It worked. The life came back into his eyes, and he was ready to experience life again.

How do you thank two little souls for giving you the most precious things in life: loyalty, unconditional love, and kindness? From the day we got them in May 2004, they have filled our lives with joy.


Sugar, Ron, and Spice, Florida 2015

I have struggled with the writing of The Meadow Fairy and wasn’t sure why. I am an empathic writer, and there has been so much unrest in the world. These things affect me deeply. It seemed that certain things had to happen in the universe and in my life in order for me to add them into Abby’s new story. I don’t question how or why this happens any longer. I just wait, and then, I write.

Yesterday, I knew that the only way I could pay tribute to our beloved girls was to write them into the story so they could remain immortal on paper. In this way, their personalities will shine and spread love and joy to others.

Spice’s ashes will come back to us so that we still have a bit of her with us. Her spirit has joined the collective, and I know we will see her again, in another place, and time.

Love,

Ron and Colleen


A Mother’s Day Lament

A secret has been mine forever to keep

In a deep dark void a place of no sleep,

I bury the longing for my mother’s love

She left me quite early and ascended above.

***

I stumbled through life without her touch

Wondering and yearning if I resembled her face,

Hoping and wishing she’d help me find my place

Always longing for my mother’s love.

***

My own children have come and gone

Left me for their own dreams in the sun,

I find through the years the ache is still there –

I still long for the touch of my mother’s love.

~*~

Mother’s Day is a celebration of the love between mothers and their children. It is also a time when we must remember those who never knew their mothers or those who have never had children. Their pain is real and never goes away. Instead, it dulls and remains a hungering ache to surface at certain days of the year.

I send you peace and love.

RonovanWrites Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt Challenge #48 Inspire & Loss

 

Ron, from Ronovan Writes, gives us the words: Inspire and loss to work with this week for our Haiku challenge!

Inspired by the sun –

summer storms with a fury,

defeating the heat.

The heat and humidity are cloying now in Pensacola, Florida. It will feel like well over 100 degrees F. by this afternoon. I have entered my “winter” and will stay in the air conditioning. I am writing away on my book.

What about you? Has the heat got you too? Write a haiku and beat the heat!

It was great seeing you all today. Until we visit again,

052415_1835_MindfulMond5.jpg

 

 

The Red Sweater

A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.

Today’s twist: write the scene from three different points of view: from the perspective of the man, then the woman, and finally the old woman.

Blogging U 9.14

The Man:

The morning sun is dappled as it flashes between the leaves of the trees lining the main pathway of the park.  I hold my wife’s hand easily inside my own, cradling it protectively.  We walk along slowly, savoring the time we have together.  We follow the curving path matching our footsteps in time.

Coming around the bend in the path, I see her.  An old woman, her grey hair blowing in the breeze, knitting a small red sweater, while seated at the bench.  I look at the woman and start to cry as the realization that I must leave tomorrow really sinks into my brain.  The thought of leaving now gouges at me.

I grip my wife’s hand tighter and say, “I know this overseas assignment is going to be hard on you, what with the baby coming and all.”  “Don’t worry about me,” she replies.  “Your folks will help.”

I look at her, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.  “I know,” I say to her gently.  I kiss her lips and hold her tightly to my chest, one hand on her protruding belly.  My baby is in there, I think to myself.

The morning breezes stir my wife’s hair, tickling my chin.  I smile down into her upturned face kissing her again.  At this moment and time, I do not want her to know what my mission in Syria will be.  It is better she never find out.

The Woman:

The park is cool this early in the morning as the mellow wind wafts through the trees.  “Our path,’’ I think to myself.  My husband firmly holds my hand inside his as we walk together enjoying the sounds of the birds flitting from branch to branch in the trees above us.  The sun is warm when it touches me in between the shade of the trees.  I feel like I am in a movie, like time is incomplete, or in slow motion.

We keep step with each other, in unison, walking and swaying.  I think about us walking like this and wonder if our life together has been just one long dance.  As we round the bend in the path I see an old woman sitting on our bench.  In her gnarled hands I see the flashing of red yarn as she knits a tiny sweater.

My husband sees the woman too and he cries out, tears in his eyes.  I know he saw that tiny baby sweater she is knitting, I thought.  I grab his hand tighter, holding on to him.  I feel the baby kick, tiny flutters pushing against his hand.  He kisses me deeply.

After a moment of blissful eternity, my husband says, “I know this overseas assignment is going to be hard on you, what with the baby coming and all.”  I squeeze his hand reassuringly, “Don’t worry about me.”  “Your folks will help.”  I choke back my own tears.  Plenty of time for crying after he is gone, I think to myself, gaining control of my emotions for the fifth time that day.

He leaves for Syria tomorrow.  An assignment we never thought he would get because the baby is due in only a few months.  He had worked it out with his commander.  He would be able to stay here with me until the baby was born.  That is life in the military.  If they wanted you to have a family, they would have issued you one, I thought bitterly.

He kisses me again, all the while looking at me with a wistful smile on his face.  I close my eyes and melt into his arms.

The Old Woman:

What a lovely morning this has been, thought the old woman.  I am glad I decided to get out of the house and enjoy the summer breezes here in the park.  The leaves rustled in the trees and flashed brightly in the pattered sunshine making her silver hair glow brightly in the sun.

She picked up her knitting, pulling the thick red yarn out of her basket.  The tiny red sweater was really taking shape.  She had been working on this gift for her new grandson for several months now. Her knitting needles clicked together, as if keeping time with the young couple walking down the path.

Red sweater

(Image credit: Cardigan Jumpers)

The old woman glanced up and noticed the couple hand in hand, in perfect rhythm, walking toward her.  What a handsome couple they are, she thought.  The wife is pregnant too!  How wonderful to see them so in love walking in the park, she thinks to her herself.

Curious now, and remembering her own past loves, the old woman peeks at them through her downturned lashes.  She watches as the man suddenly grabs the young woman tightly to him, and kisses her, their hands intertwined  over her large belly.

The old woman blushes as if she was witnessing something she should not.  How lovely together they are, she thinks.  This is a private time between them.  I should get up and leave them alone.

She gathers up her knitting and places the tiny red sweater in her basket. I just cannot wait until my grandson is born, she smiles to herself.   The old woman slowly walks past the couple who do not even see her leave the park.

Thanks for visiting.  I hope you enjoyed this story from three different perspectives,

Silver Threading

The Leaving

1-9-10 missouri river

The north wind blows the snow in swirling luminous eddies.

Biting cold seeps into the woman’s fruitless body prostrate on the ground.

Sparkling snow, deep in some places, barren in others, fans over her splayed-out chestnut hair.

Spiky golden stalks of grass rubbing in the wind,

Scratching, scratching in the snow.

~ ~ ~

What could end the promise of another breath or another day?

How could one so young and strong lose the beating of her heart, as

a swirling storm inside raged against her desolate soul –

never to feel the tender touch of one so small.

Clouds cast shadows against the darkness of the night.

Spiky golden stalks of grass rubbing in the wind,

Scratching, scratching in the snow.

~ ~ ~

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