Hand in Hand

Her wedding ring holds it's spot on her right hand
and reflections of a couple with full heads of hair and young skin fade in it's band.
He proposed in 1957.
They've been apart for nine years,
but they're marriage is 36 years strong.
She used that same hand to wipe her daughter's tears as another grave was filled and the other side of the bed was emptied.
They met at a bowling alley in 1952 and bowled every Thursday night,
but she dropped the ball and bruised her hand 15 years ago and hasn't been since.
In the summer of 1955 they spent nights by the beach in San Antonio.
Her hands rested on his chest while she slept.
And in 1963, Kennedy was assassinated
and when nothing seemed right in the world her hands pushed him out the door.
Those same hands dialed the hotel's number the next day to bring him home.
Her hands held their second child in 1967, and their love for each other only grew.
In 1981 her hands carried in the thanksgiving turkey to a family of five and he cut the pieces and passed it around.
But then in 1983 he got sick and she held his hands as he broke.
By 1984 he was gone and those hands were holding him after his last breath.

To whomever has her next

Laugh at every bad joke she makes, even when she won't laugh at any of yours.

Make sure you buy her favorite candy for her, even though it's your last three dollars and the milk has gone sour.

She'll hate it when you pick her up, but do it anyway and spin her in circles until she has to catch her breath from laughing so hard.

When she falls asleep on the couch during that movie she said she wanted to see so bad, wrap her in the knitted blanket on the banister and walk her up the stairs.

Sometimes she won't eat dinner, but don't try to force her to, just pour her cheerios and make her tea the next morning.

She'll put up Christmas lights in July and carve pumpkins the day after Halloween, but don't ask her why. All you have to do is help her.

Bring her flowers on April fifth and she'll tell you why that day still chews away at her bones when she's ready.

Keep the long, thick socks with the mouse pattern clean so that she can wear them under her boots when it rains.

When she's too weak to even open her eyes, hold her as long as you can.

If she cries in the middle of the night, make her popcorn and sit with her on the bathroom floor.

Let her paint the walls whatever color she wants to help her take her mind off of things.

If you're ever out of town, even if it's only for a night, send her a postcard and tell her you miss her eyes.

When she stays home sick she'll tell you to leave her alone, but make sure you leave soup outside her bedroom door.

Don't ever forget how lucky you are, even when she's falling to pieces, because she'll always hold you together.

Motif Story - Tradition

February 5, 2000
Chinatown, New York City, New York
Chinese New Year

 The surface of the table is cold and still wet from the rag the busboy used to wipe it down. I can hear the cooks in the back of the dirty little restaurant yelling at each other in the same language I've been hearing all night. It all sounds the same. Just a bunch of gibberish spoken too quickly and too loudly.
“Do you know what you want?” My mother says from behind a menu.
“No” I say with a shrug. I lift my head and rest my chin on my hands.
“Are you hungry?” She lowers the menu to reveal a raised eyebrow.
“I guess…,” I mutter.
“Choose something.” she says and closes the menu. It slides across the table. I squint at the small black print. I don’t even know what the majority of this stuff means.
“Can’t I just get a hot dog from one of the street vendors?”
Mom folds her arms and gives me a stern look.“It’s Chinese New Year. We’re being festive.”
“But, Mom,”
“Can we just enjoy something for once and have a little bit of fun?
“Mom,” I interrupt her rant.
“What?”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” I lean in closer. “we're not Chinese,” I whisper.
“Pick up the menu and choose your damn food because I will not hesitate to order without you, and no, you can’t get a hot dog from one of the street vendors.” I go back to squinting at the black print. I see a waitress wearing a white apron and a big smile making her way over to our table. My mother gives me a serious look and points her finger at my menu angrily. I go back to squinting.
“Are you ready to order?” I can barely make out the waitress’ words through her thick accent.
“Um…” Mom glares at me. I shrug. “I know what I want, but maybe you should just come back in a few minutes.”
“No!” I say louder than I mean to. I can’t take much more of this “celebrating”. “Order for me.” I demand.
“You sure?”
The smile doesn’t leave the waitress’ mouth. Not even for a second. Mom orders our food in gibberish and the waitress nods along, still smiling. It’s almost creepy. I struggle to decide whether she’s happy, or just finds the stereotypical ignorance of Americans funny. Or maybe she just has no idea what’s going on.
Lets go with number three.
She walks away, still smiling, and we sit in silence for a few moments. It’s nice. But, all good things must come to an end.
“James?”
“Yeah?” I say from inside the cave I have created with my arms on the table.
“I know you're upset Dad’s not here. He just had to work.” This is literally the sixth time she has said this to me tonight. I’ve been counting.
“It’s fine. He’s just busy” I respond.
“It’s not fine. He said he would be here.” She holds her head in her hands.
I try to make her feel better.
“He just, had a meeting or something.”
She gives me a weak smile. Our eyes drift to the waitress, who is now using her nod and smile routine on a man drinking a cup of coffee at the counter.
“I’m not so sure she knows what he’s saying.”


***


February 1, 2003
Chinatown, New York City, New York
Chinese New Year

Mom stared at me from across the table with a blotchy, tear stained face. I told her we didn’t have to come today.
“It’s Chinese New Year. This is a tradition.” she insisted.
If you ask me, coincidentally doing the same thing on a holiday last year and the year before doesn’t make it a tradition, it just makes you somewhat dull.
Dad left last Thursday, but not for the first time. He leaves all the time, but he always finds his way back after a guilty drinking binge.
“Want me to order for you?” she says.
“He’ll be back, Mom.” I say. She nods and covers her face. “He always comes back.”
“I just wish you didn’t have to deal with this.” She removes the silverware from her napkin.
“I’m used to it,”  I shrug.
“This isn’t something you should have to get used to.” She blots her eyes with the napkin.
The waitress quickly makes her way toward our table. Smiling, of course.
“Are you ready to order?” Her thick accent hasn’t gotten anymore understandable. It seems to be horrible enough to provoke tears because before I know it my Mother is sobbing so loudly the gibberish coming from all around us has silenced and the cooks all stare, gathered in a mass by the tiny door leading into the kitchen. The smile our waitress is known for suddenly leaves her face and she quickly turns and retreats to the counter.
I scooch myself out from my side of the booth and sit down next to her. I put my arm around her shoulder and pull her in close.
“It’s going to be okay, Mom. I swear.”
***

February 18, 2007
Chinatown, New York City, New York
Chinese New Year
    “James, I told you that you didn’t have to come home for this.” Mom says.
“Mom, it’s tradition.” I respond. “And I missed you guys.”
“Why do we even celebrate Chinese New Year? We’re not Chinese.” Charlie says as he puts his menu down on the table. He proposed to Mom last week. It’s nice to know Mom has company when I’m not around. He keeps her happy.
Mom and I exchange smiles. She turns to face Charlie.
“We don’t care. Didn’t you hear him?” She says pointing toward me. “It’s tradition.”

Fractured Folk Tale - The Last Letter

    He was found sprawled out on the sidewalk, like a squashed ant. Barely clinging to life with the unsteady beat of his damaged heart, and gasping for air with slow, broken breaths that rolled from his shriveled lungs like the smoke that rose from the windows of his office building.
    We received a short call from a calm, sweet voiced lady telling us that he had just been checked into the hospital and was in critical condition. My older sisters, my mother, and I packed into our little station wagon and made the silent, twenty minute trip into the city to see him.
My mother and sisters threw themselves to his side and sobbed into his chest and proclaimed their love for him and how they have let go of all of their accusations and anger that they had been clutching close to their chests for months. I made myself comfortable in the corner of the tiny hospital room and listened to their cries of love for a man who couldn’t hear them. Begging for forgiveness in fear that this might be their last chance. In fear that karma would come for them for resenting a dead man.
I understood why they did this. When the people in your life are just barely hanging on to the edge of their existence, your worst fears become eternally loose ends. Things left unsaid and undid, remaining that way forever because you let the opportunity slip from your grasp.
But the opportunity was lost. That’s what they didn’t know. Dad would never have the chance to forgive and forget. He was gone before the beat of his heart flat lined and I knew it.
So there I stood with my back against the blue paint and eyes that refused to shed tears because I remembered his laugh and the sound of his voice. I knew what it felt like to be hugged by him and I could easily describe the way he smelled. Like old book pages and coffee.
“Quinn.” Mom whispered as she approached me. Her mascara left black rivers that meandered down her cheeks. “Come over here.” She picked up my hand from its place on the arm of my chair and tugged at it. I complied and stood up. She led me over to my father’s bedside and I found myself standing over his body, staring at the wall.
I wasn’t a crier.  I never had been, but right then, my eyes started to ache and fill up with tears. Between the beeps of the respirator, the heartache consumed me. In that moment I realized my dad was gone and my whole life would change when the beeps that separated those thoughts ceased.
We lived at the hospital for the following week. We’d leave to go shower and get a fresh change of clothes and maybe an hour of sleep, but that was it. My sisters and I stayed home from school and my mom skipped as many meetings as she could, but sometimes she couldn’t get out of them and she’d leave with worry struck across her face and fear that she’d come back to the sheet pulled up over my father’s head and a doctor’s well rehearsed, pitying words that tell her that there was nothing they could do.
Dad was never one to abandon others.
He took his last breath on a Thursday night. We sat around his hospital bed clutching burritos from the Mexican restaurant down the street and the beeping suddenly turned into a ring that signified a flatline, but if you ask me, my dad hadn’t breathed in a long time.

I sat at the top of the stairs listening to their angry whispers in the dark.
“I know you’ve been with that girl.”
“Lisa, what girl?”
“The girl at your office. The one at the desk that you’ve been spending so much time with.”
“She’s a co-worker. I have meetings with her sometimes. That’s it.”
“Meetings? What happens at these meetings?”
“Nothing! We work.” It wasn’t the first time mom accused him of something like this. It was constant, but I knew she was only paranoid. So were my sisters. They constantly reminded him that he was lucky that mom hadn’t thrown his stuff out on the front lawn and that he was a horrible father. I didn’t believe any of the accusations. Dad wasn’t a cheater and he loved us all with everything he had, even if we didn’t love him back.
We drove home that night in silence. Deafening silence. Mom threw a fit in the lobby of the hospital, but it didn’t come from love and loss. It was a cry for attention. She was now the widow left with three girls that everyone would pity and this wasn’t what she bargained for.

The reading of his will was on a Tuesday. My mother, my sisters, and I sat in a line of chairs in the center of the room surrounded by friends and family I barely knew. A tall, skinny man with a gray beard sat behind a desk with a folder in his hands.
“Shall we begin?” He asked. We nodded in unison. “Alright.”  He opened up the folder and began reading from a packet. He left the house and car and the majority of everything to my mother. My sisters and I were all too young to be left with anything of any real significance, so I didn’t pay attention to the majority of the reading. “Which one of you girls is Quinn?” I slowly raised my hand. The man pulled a yellow envelope out from one of the folder pockets and slid it to the other side of the desk. “He left this for you.” I nodded and held the envelope close to my chest.
We walked through the door and retreated to our separate rooms. The house was dark and rain streamed down the windows and the night went on silently. I sat on my bed holding the letter. I held the last surprise my dad had for me in my hands. No more presents, and jokes, and ice cream trips, only a letter.
Quinn,
    I wanna thank you for never giving up on me. I know your mother and your sisters lost any faith they had in me and you never did. You stuck by me. I would’ve understood if you had taken their side and believed the accusations, but you didn’t. I know it would’ve been easier to take their side, but I also know you never take the easy way out. I love you Quinn, more than anything. Thank you for always sticking by me.
                                                                                                -Love Dad

Short Story - Riches to Rags

The summer nights of 1926 were spent dancing, drinking, and socializing with friends and business associates of my family. Soirees were held at the Chateau most nights. These nights were filled with beautiful music, shimmering gowns, and waiters in black tailcoats with bright red bow ties carrying polished silver trays stacked with hors d’oeuvres and crystal glasses filled with bubbling red and white wine.
I remember running through the grand foyer under the gold chandeliers and peeking around the legs of our guests in search of my parents, whom I'd eventually find at the center of a crowd. I’d stand next to them and watch as Papa entertained the group with his stories and jokes and Mother would smile and watch him with admiration.
Their love for each other radiated off of them like steam from a hot kettle. You could feel it just by standing in their presence. Every time they met each other's gaze they couldn't help but smile.
 I remember watching Mother's dangling diamond earrings swing a little as she laughed and when they caught the light they sparkled. I had always dreamed of the day when I would get to wear those beautiful diamonds. I thought maybe if I was wearing those I could be as beautiful as Mother. She was all flawless elegance and charm. Everything I dreamt of becoming.
Papa always looked his best. He had a look about him that was approachable, but you could tell he was a smart man, a man you shouldn't mess with. You never saw him without a cigar and his wire rimmed glasses. He smelled like Spearmint and cigar smoke. A smell I loved so much. A smell I miss so much.
    I tapped my fingers against the cold window. Rain drops raced each other down the opposite side of the glass. I spent most days curled up in the window seat of the bedroom I shared with 9 other girls at Saint Joy’s Orphanage. I spent other days adjusting new children to this sort of life. A life of waiting. For new family, old family, adulthood, and really anything that meant a way out of this place.
One of two things occurred during adjustment. Either the child puts the sadness aside or wallows in it. The sadness is there no matter what. Some are just better at hiding it than others.
    I heard the doorbell ring from my bedroom. I sprang from my spot on the bed and grabbed my robe from its hook on the back of the door. I ran to the top of the grand staircase and peeked around the corner of the banister. There were three knocks on the door followed by the sound of a man’s deep voice.  
“Mr. and Mrs. Williamson? This is Detective Charles speaking. We have a few things we’d like to discuss with you.”
I watched as Mother ran down the hall to the door. Papa followed closely behind her and watched as she slowly unlocked and opened the door.
“Hello, Detective.” My mother said.
“Hello ma’am. I’m sorry about the late hour, but we have some questions for you.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Papa questioned.
The detective stepped inside and was closely followed by two officers in pressed, navy blue uniforms. One of the officers looked around a little and noticed me. We made eye contact and he quickly averted his eyes back toward his feet.
“No Sir, I’m afraid not.” The detective spoke seriously. I could sense the urgency in his voice. Mother tried to hide the obvious worry on her face but it was too late. It spread over her like wildfire. She was usually so calm but now she couldn't stand still. She suddenly looked out of place in her own home. Estranged from her flawless elegance. Papa's arms found their way to her shoulders, helping to hold her up on her feet. He turned her around and held her close. She whispered something in his ear and he responded with a kiss on the cheek. Mother turned back around, looked at the detective, and began to walk into the next room. Papa, the detective, and the two officers followed.
At the time, I wanted so badly to know what they were saying in that room. I have regretted listening in on that conversation ever since. I could've just gone back to bed. I could've waited until our maid, Maria, came to tell me some made up story about what happened the next morning. I was only a child and I didn't know any better.
I crept down the stairs and hid myself behind the doorway to the parlor. I could hear the detective's low, serious voice.
"We received a tip earlier this evening."
"A tip?" My mother asked.
"It was about all those parties you have been having this summer." He said. There was silence for a moment.
"Mr. and Mrs. Williamson, do you know anything about the illegal distribution of alcohol in this house?"
"I'm sure this must be some kind of mistake." Papa said.
"No, no mistake." The detective had no doubts.
"We have witnesses claiming that you and your wife have been holding those parties as a diversion. They say that your guests pay a fee to attend and leave with however much they paid for."
"You're crazy!" Papa exclaimed. Mother stayed silent.
"I'm sorry Sir, but these two officers are here to arrest you and your wife."
"We've done nothing wrong!" Papa was angry. He never yelled, ever. Mother still said nothing.
My heart started beating faster. I could hear the two officers standing up and I could hear the jingle of the handcuffs. I didn't move.
The detective was now standing and I could hear his footsteps approaching. My mind and heart raced. I felt sick to my stomach. My knees went weak and I slid down the wall. I sat holding my legs close to my chest. The detective didn't notice me as he walked by. He was followed by the officers and my parents. Papa saw me.
"Charlotte? Charlotte, baby." He pleaded as he was being pushed toward the door.
"We love you so much. I'm sorry." Papa’s words cut me like a knife.
"I love you." This was the last thing Papa said before being pushed out the door. It was the last thing Papa said to me period. Mother said nothing.
Maria arrived shortly after my parents left. She found me in Mother's closet, wrapped up in her pink satin robe.
My heart rate finally slowed and my tears subsided. I walked down the dark hallway toward the back staircase. My footsteps echoed through the empty house. The house felt bigger than it ever had. I stretched out my arms and put my hands on the walls, letting them guide me down the hall. I walked through the kitchen and opened the door to the narrow, spiral staircase. Maria always told me I wasn’t allowed to use the back staircase. She said Papa told her not to let me because he was afraid I would fall. The stairs creaked with every step I took.
I stepped into Mother's closet and the smell of her perfume immediately hit me. I ran my hand down the long line of dresses hung up on the rack along the wall. The majority of them were different shades of blue because Papa always told her how much he liked her in that color. Her robe was on the hook at the end of the rack. It was a gift from Papa and I last Christmas. I made Papa buy it for her because of how soft it was. I took off my robe and put it on the floor. I pulled the pink satin from it's hook and wrapped myself in it. In the middle of the room were the diamond earrings Papa bought for her after I was born. They were laying on a silver tray alongside her perfume and a picture frame. It was a picture of the three of us. I was just a baby when it was taken. Mother was holding me up and kissing my forehead while Papa had his arms around her waist. I was giggling and they both had wide smiles stretched across their faces. I loved that photo. I grabbed the picture and sat on the floor against the wall. Tears fell from my eyes as I held the frame close.
They were found guilty and sentenced to a minimum of 10 years in prison and I was sent here. It's been seven years.
I heard a knock on the door and turned. The new little girl Samantha stood in the doorway holding an envelope. She got here two days ago. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were tear stained, but she was adjusting relatively well compared to a lot of the others.
"Hi Sammy! How are you doin’?" I said and managed a smile. She walked toward me and held out the envelope.
"This is for me?" I asked. She nodded. I grabbed the corner of the envelope and pulled it from in between her fingers. She immediately turned around and ran back out the door. I hoped it wasn't another letter from my parents. I stopped reading those a long time ago. They hurt too much.
The envelope looked more official than usual. The return address read 536 Varick Street, Manhattan, New York, New York.
I ripped the top of the envelope open and pulled out a perfectly folded sheet of white paper and a newspaper clipping. I unfolded the paper.
Ms Charlotte Williamson,
    I am pleased to inform you that on February 23, 1934 your parents, Patrick and Julia Williamson, will be released from incarceration and all charges held against them will be dropped. Though you are almost eighteen, they have requested permission to take you home following their release. They will be coming to visit you on February 25, 1934 and you can make your decision then.
- Grace Baron
The newspaper clipping was of the headline "Does an End to Prohibition Signify the Release of Criminals?"
The word criminals stared back at me. This word referred to people like my parents. People my parents always taught me to take pity on and to never associate myself with. Now they themselves are criminals. Only criminals would rip me from everything I love and leave me. They left me with nothing and nobody.
 Tears started to fall from my eyes. They hit the newspaper and smudged the ink a little. My own parents are criminals. They're monsters.
                                      • • •
I sat at one of the small circular tables in the cafeteria. I watched as the hands of the clock crawled to 1:30. The room felt cold. Colder than usual. Like a window had been left open. It was probably all in my head. Maybe it was fear.
I rubbed my eyes and yawned. I hadn't slept in two days. I had been dreaming of a way out of this place for years and here it was but all I wanted was for things to go back to how they were before the letter. I could just spend my days in solitary peace with nothing but the day I turn eighteen to look forward to or dread.
1:32.
"Charlotte?"
This voice silenced my thoughts. I looked up to find a woman standing in the doorway. An aged version of my mother. Someone with wrinkles at the sides of her eyes and a gray streak in her hair.
I nodded my head.
"You- you're so grown up" Her voice cracked. A man came up behind her. He had graying hair but he was still just as I remembered him.
"My baby girl." He said with a smile. Tears threatened to roll down my cheeks but I quickly wiped them away. Mother started to walk towards the table and I stood up. She opened up her arms and hugged me tightly. The smell of her perfume was gone.
"I've missed you so much. It's been such a long time." She was in tears now. All I could do was nod. I didn't want to cry. She stepped back and Papa immediately wrapped his arms around me. The smell of spearmint was there but the cigar smoke was gone.
"Look at you! You look just like your Mother." I couldn't help but smile a little bit and a tear rolled down my face.
We had an hour to talk. I didn't say much. Mother went on a rant about how much time we need to make up for and all the things we're going to do. They asked about my time here but I saw no use in trying to explain. How do you fit seven years of man eating loneliness into an hour? I couldn't bear to tell them I didn't want to go home. The idea of it made me sick.
They want to pick up right where we left off, but I can't. I know I can't because whenever I dreamt of leaving this place it never meant going home for me. It meant finding a new home. Somewhere that has no intention of being perfect.
They said they would be back first thing tomorrow, but by that time I'll be gone.

Travel Essay

    I struggle with the door. It’s old and its knob is hard to twist sometimes, so it takes a little bit of work to open. It takes a couple tries, but I always win. It’s early. Too early for anyone to climb aboard their pontoon boats and drink margaritas in the sun, but not too early for me.
I step out onto the warm, wooden boards of the deck and throw my body against the railing. It looks out over the dock, and the boats that bob in the water. Waves tumble in underneath their hulls and sparkle in the early morning sun. I look up toward the hills and trees that hug the opposite shore.  The way they act as a frame for the glistening water that pulls me into its portrait. I can never resist.
    The inside of our little family hunting camp is a mix of grungy and charming. The old door of the camp leads into a wide family room that always seems to be filled with the crashing of dishes, and yelling, and laughing. The 50 year old stereo blasts classic rock all day and it’s turned down low at night, but guitar riffs and drumlines still hum along with the static carried by “Rock 105”. My cousins and I crowd around the glossy wooden table playing cribbage, a game we forbade the playing of anywhere else, and we lay cards down and count fifteens as we pass the box of lucky charms around.
    We lose track of time and no one sleeps until our eyes are too tired to even see our cards. When we finally do climb into our bunks and zip up our sleeping bags the bunk room is pitch black and all you can see is the soft glow of our phone screens that illuminate our faces.
    I only wake up once my aunt opens up the bunk room door and bangs two pans together. We shovel pancakes and eggs into our mouths and rush out onto the deck where we find our fishing poles still leaning against the railing from late last night. We rush down the steps and begin screaming “NOT IT!” when we realize that we forgot the worms upstairs, but we all know that the youngest will always be the one that has to drag themselves back up the neverending staircase to get them. I am the youngest and I complain but everyone else is already on the dock telling me to hurry up. We cast lines off the dock all morning until the water is still and the fish stop biting by the pointy rock under the trees. One by one we begin jumping into the water and race out to the trampoline that floats about 50 feet away from the shore.
We make it out there and lay in the sun until our skin is dry and our cheeks are sunburnt. I claim I’m too tired to swim back and I clutch onto anyone who will let me. They drag me back to the dock and we climb down onto the beach to skip rocks, something I was never all that good at. We get called back upstairs for dinner and it is quickly decided with full mouths and nodding heads that a trip up to the falls would be a nice idea for tonight.
The blue coolers are quickly packed full of drinks and ice and we find ourselves wrapped in blankets on the leather of our seats, under the pink clouds of the lake.  We watch the splashing of cascading waters under the bridge and we only go home when the drinks are warm and the mosquitos are biting.

   

Intensity

Intensity wears a bright shade of red on her lips. She carries the lipstick with her and reapplies it when faced with an obstacle. She has a smile that captures a picture of charm and allure, but won't be tied down because no rope can hold her. They never fail to collapse in the flames of her fiery eyes. Eyes that could cut a diamond and burn a hole in your heart.
She has black hair like a sky without its stars and it seems to go on forever. It catches the wind and reminds me of the wings of a raven against a full moon. Intensity has frostbitten veins and the blood of a wolf. When she speaks, her words fall over you like hail and the pieces hit you so hard they leave bruises. Once intensity has you, she has you forever.