The window matches the rest of the house. Grimy, covered in years of dirt and memories that no amount of cleaning can make a dent in. I should know. I’ve tried. But soap can’t erase memories, not even from a window like this.

The hammer feels familiar in my hand. I hate the familiarity, actually—just another reminder of the life I’m trying to forget.

But today is demolition day. Demolition of this house, in preparation for a new restaurant, and demolition of my old life in preparation for the new. A clean slate. That’s a good thing, right? I don’t know how to answer the question.

The answer seems obvious, considering I’ve spent the last...how many years, now? Seventeen, I think. Seventeen years trying to forget the past.

But the past has gotten me here, hasn’t it? Maybe it’s not something I should try and forget. *** Wren was only 16 when she took off. Far away from her father, from the family that all-too-clearly didn’t want her. From the pain, and heartbreak, and loneliness of living in her own little bubble, locked in her room, left alone to her own devices. She wouldn’t feel that again. Not now, on the dusty streets of her city that bordered the Sahara.

Wren would have to find a way to make a living, hopefully save up for a house or something. Finding a job would be easy—she could do anything from bartending to fast food. It was in the in-between, the time from when she started to when she raised enough for a place to stay, that the problem rested.

Wren could sleep on the streets with just the pack on her back, for all she cared. As long as she was out of that house.

And sleep on the streets she did.

The first order of business, she decided in the morning, was to find a job. Technically, she’d decided that the day before, but she figured it would be better to ask around when the alleyways weren’t shrouded in darkness, hiding criminals ready to ambush any unsuspecting visitor.

However, considering the sand and dust currently coating every inch of her, Wren began to question her decision. She would never get a job in a nice place, not looking like this. She was a mess. With nothing else to do, though, Wren shouldered her pack and trudged through the streets in search of someone to question about a job.

The streets were desolate. Considering the midsummer heat beating down on her shoulders and the sweat trickling down her back, Wren couldn’t blame people for staying inside, but still. She needed a job, or at least some air conditioning. When the heat got to be too much, Wren ducked inside the nearest building. A tavern. Probably too busy for comfort, but there wasn’t another option for an escape from the sun. Besides, she wouldn’t be staying long.

Ironically, that tavern was where Wren spent most of the next couple years, when she wasn’t on the run. People paid well for small favors, and the occasional vengeance mission got Wren even more. She was a natural bounty-hunter. More of a criminal-for-hire, actually, because she took any jobs she could, but it paid enough for her to get a dingy room in the tavern’s basement. Wren never gave her name to the owner, and he never gave his name in return, but as long as she stayed out of the way of his underground dealings, he tolerated her.

Eventually, a tiny house across the paved road caught Wren’s eye. It was pristine, even glowed sometimes in her eyes, and it was the perfect size for her to live alone. There was only one problem, one that Wren discovered one night while scouting out the place through the window. That house was already owned, by a wealthy-looking businessman, no less. And, after a short conversation with him, Wren learned that the house was most definitely not for sale.

*** I can’t bring myself to raise the hammer, or tear my gaze away from the window.

The same window I used to look through, watching a certain wealthy businessman pace. The only difference is that now, instead of being out on the dusty streets, I live here. But I never bought the house, not really. Identity fraud can do wonders for an 18-year-old.

Identity fraud and other things. My grip tightens on the hammer. *** Wren flew under the radar, doing favors, gaining a reputation in the tavern, until her eighteenth birthday.

She couldn’t stay in the tavern forever, and that stupid businessman wouldn’t sell her the house anytime soon.

She had to get that house. And she knew exactly how she was going to do it. Wren had watched the mini black market under the tavern thrive and grow for the past year, and she decided it was about time she got involved.

The plan formed slowly, and the technical details that could get her arrested were too many to count, but one-by-one, Wren worked out the solutions. The plan was a twisted mash-up of identity fraud, breaking and entering, and another crime that Wren was reluctant to acknowledge, but she would go through with it. It was only one time, and if she didn’t get caught, she could live a normal life from the moment she got the house and on. Her entire plan hinged on this one moment, and despite her fears and the moral dilemma it presented, she knew she would go through with it. She had to. She convinced herself of that on the short walk through the pitch-black desert night to the house in question, with her rusty hammer in hand. It felt foreign, especially considering the two things she was about to use it for, but she clenched her fingers and pulled up outside the window. It was still pristine. Still spotless. It would be gone in a few short moments, but Wren could always replace it.

Wren swung the hammer. The glass shattered.

There was still the hard part of her plan to get over with, but this was the beginning of a new life for her. The wall, or window, rather, holding her back was gone now. Crushed to pieces underfoot. Wren climbed into the house.

Just this once .

It went against everything she believed, but she only had to do it just this once.

Get rid of the man, then the house would be hers.

*** I take a deep breath and raise my hammer, wanting to close my eyes but unable to stop looking at that cursed window.

It will be gone in a few short moments, but the new owners of this house can always replace it.

I swing the hammer. The glass shatters.

A new beginning for me. I can finally forget the old life, forget how I got this house, be a legitimate person from now on. That’s what I told myself last time.

Just this once. But this time, as I crush the slivers of glass under my soles, I mean it.


It was hot as hell and we had the big fans going in the garage the day she stepped into my life. I was finishing up underneath a beat-up ‘37 pickup. It needed much more than the oil change I was giving it but what the hell, it wasn’t my problem. I slid out from under the truck, wiped my brow and hands with a dirty rag, and there she was. She and Manny, one of the other mechanics, were talking over her car. She was wearing a tight striped sleeveless blouse and shorts that barely touched her thighs. Her blond hair was pinned up and she had on these big gaudy sunglasses. Her lips were bright red and she had dark sweat stains under her arms but even so she was an absolute knockout. I took her to be a few years older than me, maybe 25 or 26. She looked like she’d probably done a stint at the university, or anyway she probably came from money or had plenty of it. The car alone was enough to tell me that. It was a year-old foreign model and it looked like the kind of thing a diplomat would drive. Like what you’d imagine Katharine Hepburn or Cary Grant riding around in. Whatever this girl’s problem was, I knew I could solve it, so I sauntered over and stuck my nose into her business. “Hey, Manny, what goes on here?” “This lady, she says there’s something wrong with the brakes. I was just going to--” “Brakes, eh? Go take a powder, Manny. I’ll handle it.” When he was gone I turned to the lady and said “Sorry to horn in like that but a woman of your class deserves the best, and I’m the best grease monkey in the joint.” “Really it’s no bother.” She smiled at me and removed her sunglasses, holding the stem between her teeth. The same red that was on her lips was also on her long tapered fingernails. “My husband said that the brakes were acting up, and based on the harrowing drive I had over here I’d have to say he was right!” “Husband, eh? That’s a shame.” She chuckled. “Well, let me take a look.” I climbed into the driver’s seat and pumped the brake pedal a few times. Sure enough there was something screwy. Too much give, no pressure at all on the pads. I got out and slid under the car to take a look at the brake line. Sure enough, it was busted. Clean cut straight through. Someone had been tampering with it. I slid out from under the car and gave the lady a long hard look. “Yeah, you’re leaking fluid there. Lucky your husband noticed or else there could have been a real bad accident .” I looked her right in the baby blues on that last word. She shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, that would have been dreadful. I’m so glad he’s safe.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Well listen, it’s going to be a while before I have this thing ship-shape again. Why don’t you leave your information at the desk inside and I’ll give you a ring when she’s ready to be picked up? We can call you a cab to get you home in the meantime.” She agreed. “Say, I haven’t asked your name yet, have I?” “Oh, it’s Mabel. Mabel Llewelyn -- er, Smith. I’m sorry. I’m still getting used to this new name. And you are?” “Frank. I guess you haven’t been married long then.” “No, just a few months.” I nodded and showed her to the desk. Then I wheeled the car into the garage and got to work. *** Later that afternoon I called her up. “Hello?” “Mrs. Smith?” “This is she.” “It’s Frank, from the garage. Just calling to let you know that your car is all set.” “Oh, marvelous! I’ll be by in about an hour. Oh shoot, will you still be open then?” “Yeah, that’s fine. Say, are you alone?” “Yes, my husband is still at the office. Why, what is it?” “I know what you did.” There was a long pause on her end. I would have guessed she’d hung up but I could still hear her breathing. “I don’t know what you could mean,” she said, finally, cold as an eskimo’s nose. “Well ma’am, someone cut the brakes on that car. Your husband have any enemies?” “Well, no, but --” “Look Mabel. I can sympathize. A dame like you shouldn’t be tied down like you are, but offing your husband?” Another pause, then “How could you tell?” “Brake cables don’t just break like that. A little leak sure, a puncture maybe. But a clean cut through and through? Not in a million years.” It was a while before she said anything. I could hear her tsk ing on the other end while she thought. “Well then, Frank...How would you go about it?” That took me aback a bit, but I couldn’t say I didn’t see the question coming. “What would be in it for me if I was to tell you?” “My husband has a generous life insurance policy, and of course I’ll inherit much of his wealth. I would gladly give you a share.” “I want half.” She mulled that over for a bit. “Fine.” *** I kept the car overnight so I could put in a little more work. The lady wanted her husband to have an unfortunate accident, and that’s just what it would look like. She was smart to go for the brakes, she just went too far too fast. I sanded down the brake shoes just to the point where they would still work fine but if anything were to happen they’d be the number one suspect. For good measure I rigged the brake cable to leak ever so slightly. Nothing that would arouse suspicion. I gave her a ring when I was done. “Yes?” “Mabel.” “Is it finished? My husband was complaining this morning about having to take the bus again.” “Relax, it’s all taken care of. Now listen, here’s how it’s going to go down. In a few weeks you’re going to get an invitation to join a new country club up in the mountains, and you're going to persuade your hubbie to take you to the big enrollment party. Where do you usually park the car?” “What? Why does that matter?” “I’ll get to that. Driveway or garage?” “The driveway, usually, unless it’s going to rain.” “Okay, that’ll have to change. Is the garage attached to the house?” “Yes, but why should the car go into the garage?” “So we can move the body without being seen. And you’ve got to create a pattern now so there won’t be any suspicion on the big night.” “Yes, I see…” “All right? So the night of the party you’re going to leave your back door unlocked. I’ll be there around 7:30, so don’t you leave before then. I’ll sneak in and off him and then we’ll put him in the car. You with me?” “Yes.” “Fine,” I said. “Well Mrs. Smith, your car is all set. Sorry for the delay. Come by anytime and pick it up.” After I was off the phone I flagged down Manny and got him to sign the invoice for the repair. I told him I was sorry for stealing the job out from under him and that he could handle the pick-up and collect my pay from the job. I wouldn’t miss the money anyhow, and now the “botched” brake job wouldn’t have a paper trail back to me. *** I had the phony invitation printed up nice and dropped it in their mailbox myself. I trusted that Mabel could convince the husband to go, but even if she didn’t she knew enough to spread the story around the neighborhood that they were going away to the mountains. He wouldn’t put up much of a fight once he was dead. The night of the “party” as soon as I was off work I hoofed it over to their house and hopped the back fence. I had to crouch in the bushes a while because I could see them through the glass door having some kind of argument. It was my first time laying eyes on the husband. He was a fat balding man close to 50 if he was a day. I guess the big dope didn’t want to treat his wife to a night out after all. I waited until his back was to the door to creep over right next to it against the wall of the house. I reached out and tried to push it open without it making a sound. It was unlocked, just like we planned. I peeked around the corner to make sure he was still facing the other way. I could tell that Mabel saw me from the way her eyes got wide. I slid the door open and slipped inside and socked him hard on the head with the steel rod I’d brought. He went down like a sack of spuds. “Oh did you have to hit him so hard?” Mabel asked. “What does that matter? He won’t be feeling it for long.” “I know, but --” “Now don’t you go getting cold feet on me now. We’re in this thing too deep as it is.” She pulled herself together. I sent her to fetch a blanket and while she was out I finished the job with a sharp twist of his neck. I met her in the bedroom. She looked faint, like maybe she was about to scream. I pulled her to me and kissed her hard on the mouth to shut her up. She wilted in my embrace, then pulled back. “It’s done?” “Yeah. Now go put that blanket in the car while I get dressed.” “Get dressed?” “Yeah. I’ll put on one of his suits and drive us out of here. It’ll look to the neighbors like he’s behind the wheel. You got the bags packed like I said?” “Yes, they’re in the closet there.” “Fine. Real fine.” She went out to the car and I put on one of the fat man’s suits. I had to fill it out with a pillow to complete the illusion. I grabbed the bags from the closet and took them out to the car. Then I went back in and grabbed the husband. He was heavy, but I was able to drag him out to the garage. It took just about all my strength to heave him into the back seat. It’s amazing how much heavier a body can feel when it’s limp. We covered him with the blanket and set out for the mountains. One of the neighbors was out walking a little dog and I gave them a friendly wave. On the way out of town I stopped at the garage. Mabel got in the driver’s seat and I got in my own car. I led the way the rest of the way to the mountains. After we were a good distance out of town, high in the mountains on a good secluded stretch of road, I kept an eye out for a nice sharp curve. I found one a few miles past a filling station with a payphone out front. Even with good brakes this curve would put hair on your chest. I pulled over on the far side of the street and signaled Mabel to stop behind me. I got out of my car and went to talk with her. “Here’s good,” I said. “Help me get him in the driver’s seat.” I grabbed the husband under the arms and she took his legs and we carried him around the car and sat him upright in the driver’s seat. We were both breathing heavy by the time we were done. When he was seated properly I clipped the belt across his waist. That bit would be useful for our story. I got the car in neutral and nudged it over the edge. It went over easy nose first and crumpled about 30 feet down. “All right,” I panted. “Now come on.” Mabel and I slid down the cliff on our rears. I checked on the husband. His head was resting on the steering wheel, and it looked like his nose was broken in the crash. Anyway he was still dead. We had to make Mabel look like she was in the crash, too, but the official story would be that she jumped clear before the car went over the edge. She just couldn’t come out of this unscathed. Luckily for us she got scraped up on the arms and legs pretty good on the way down. She was certainly dirty enough. For extra realism I tore her dress a little and gave her a tiny bruise on the cheek. She was a good sport and didn’t make a sound when I clocked her. We climbed back up to the road. Right when we crested the rise another car came around the curve the other way and caught us in the headlights. That had me worried for a second but I figured it wouldn’t matter much. The driver couldn’t have gotten a good look at us, he wouldn’t remember exactly where it was he saw us, and anyway we’d just look like a young couple that snuck off to have some fun in the woods. We got in my car and I drove her back the way we came. We rehearsed the story that she’d tell the police: Her husband was taking her away to the mountains for a few days; he’d complained of brake troubles but she’d had them fixed; the car had come to this curve and wouldn’t stop; she was able to jump clear but only because she wasn’t wearing her seat belt; she never trusted them.

 A little ways before the filling station she got out. She’d walk the rest of the way. It would be pretty suspicious if someone at the station saw her getting dropped off at the payphone. I waited a while to give her a head start, then started the car and headed for home. When I passed the filling station I could see her in the phone booth. It looked like we were in the clear. Everything went off without a hitch. *** Naturally there was an investigation. The insurance company especially wasn’t about to pay up before they ruled out foul play. Some stuffed shirts came by the garage one day and grilled Manny pretty hard about the repair job he’s supposed to have done. He tried to shift the blame back to me but I played dumb and the paperwork backed me up. The owner was scared that lawyers might get involved. Mabel I guess seemed like the type to sue over negligence of this sort. Sure, if she had been the greedy type she could have, but she was looking forward to a big payday already. But Manny was let go anyway, and I was sorry that I got him canned. It’s been a month since the crash now, and everything’s pretty much quieted down. Mabel assured me that the insurance policy ought to be paying out and the banks ought to unfreeze the husband’s bank accounts soon. Until then I’ll be waiting here in this motel room every Friday night for her to come and give me my share. Just like we planned.


Scrape, scrape. The ear-torturing sound of a metal spoon hitting a glass bowl fills the kitchen as I aimlessly mix my low-fat, Greek yogurt. I stare into the white substance as if it holds the answers to my problems. I try not to think about my problems, though. I try not to think about anything. That's why I'm trying to drown out the productive noise of my older brother and my father discussing ways to make their private business even more efficient. They are sitting at the kitchen table, mugs of black coffee cradled in their manicured hands. I'm also trying to ignore the happy humming of my mom as she chops and peels vegetables and fruits and measures rare and strange ingredients. Every once in a while, her humming is broken up by a sudden burst of scribbling. She is working on her tenth cookbook, Smoothies for Success. Her previous nine were best sellers. My younger sister skips down the stairs in cute skinny jeans and a crop top. Her chocolate hair bounces and is curled to perfection; her makeup is flawless. "Good morning, sweety!" my mom calls in her sing-song voice. "How did you sleep?" My sister smiles brightly, "Oh, wonderfully!" She kisses my mom on the cheek. "Ooo, this looks delicious!" My mom beams at her. "Give me one second, and you can taste some." With that my mom closes the lid to her blender and pushes a button, making it roar to life. My dad takes a break from his productive conversation to yell at my sister, "How did that chemistry test go?" "Oh, it went great! A 99. I'm gonna ask my prof about the question I got wrong though... I think there must have been a grading mistake because I double checked and I know my answer was right..." My sister rambles on, positivity oozing from her honey-sweet voice. But why shouldn't it? She's an excellent student at an excellent university. She's a Biology major on a pre-med track; she's passionate about what she learns, and her future is bright. Just like the rest of my family. Scrape, scrape. I keep stirring my yogurt. Life bustles around me, but I am not part of it. "Would you stop that hellish sound!" My grandfather strides in, a brief case in one hand, a cane in the other. He is dressed in a charcoal suit, his white hair is combed back, and his shoes seem to shine. Yes, even my 85-year-old grandfather lives a more successful life than me. Today, he's off to give a Ted Talk about population ecology. He's the first person to address me this morning and 21 years of listening to his sophisticated voice makes me immediately put down my spoon. "Better," he praises, his voice dark and serious. "Good morning, Father!" My mother smiles as she finally turns off her blender and pours tall glasses of an eerie green liquid. She places one in front of me but does not say anything to me. Why would she? There is nothing happy or good or positive to say, and those are the only types of conversations she has. Instead, she asks her dad about his speech. She knows he will do great! Oh, and his suit looks so spiffy and his shoes so spotless. At the table, my sister is gushing over the smoothie. She knows it will give her a great start to her day, a day for which she has so many plans and goals. My brother gets up from the table, says he will meet my dad at the office. He leaves with keys to his BMW and a proud pat on the shoulder from Dad. A scream builds and builds and builds inside me. I look down at my bowl of yogurt, and it gazes up at me in disappointment. “How could you be such a failure?” it seems to ask. Failure, failure, failure . A scream as frustrated as it is ugly scrapes out of my throat. All eyes turn towards me. They all look shocked. They look surprised to see me, to hear me, surprised to have such a dirty, unmannered, failure in their family. Tears of embarrassment and shame and anger well up, and I hop off my stool and run to the front door. "Honey?" My mother calls, her voice unsure. "I'm going to work!" My voice sounds hoarse. "In your pajamas?" "It's pajama day!" I don't care that my answer doesn't make any sense, nor do I think about the fact that I have no work to go to. The door slams behind me, and I head for my car before remembering that it has no gas and I have no money to refill it. So I run. I run past manicured lawns and perfect houses with shiny cars. I run past wealth and success and everything I am not. My eyes blur with tears, and all I hear is my heart beating wildly and my flip-flops slapping concrete. SCREECH! HONK! HONK! A red convertible swerves to a stop in front of me, its nose just bumping me. I tumble to the ground. A car door slams. "Em! Emely! Emely, are you ok?" I look up, feeling dazed. And then I wish I hadn't. Crouched next to me with a hand on my shoulder is Ian Patrick. He moved here when I was eleven and he was twelve. We were good friends all the way through high school, and we even stayed in touch the first year of college. We thought we would be friends forever. At a point, I had hoped we could be more. But that was before I turned out to be such an epic failure. I groan and hide my face in my hands. "Em? Em, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm gonna call an ambulance, ok? Just hang on..." "No!" He looks up from dialing his phone, and his green eyes flood with relief. He always had been over dramatic. "No." I repeat, trying to push myself back to my feet, "No, I'm fine. Just shocked." "Are you sure?" He hurriedly grasps my arm, helping me stand back up. "You look terrible." "Thanks." "No! I didn't mean that! And you don't look hurt, you just look... you look..." He gestures at my over-all appearance, not sure what to say. I get what he means. I'm in penguin print pajamas with blue flip-flops and tangled hair. I'm also standing in the middle of a small intersection. He looks into my eyes, then, really looks. "Em?" his voice is gentle, soft, but also real. "Are you ok?" I look away. "Yeah. Just an unlucky day, I guess. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, didn't notice I was still in PJs, that sort of thing. Heh, heh." I add on a weak laugh. He doesn't look convinced, but he was raised to be polite and would never accuse someone of lying. "Ok... can I give you a ride?" "No, no. Heh, heh. I'm just walking..." He looks me over one more time, a dark strand of hair falling over his eyes. "OK. I'm so sorry, Em. So sorry. Be careful, ok?" He tries to catch my eye, "Stay off the street." He's serious, but he puts on a teasing smile. "You got it!" Inside, I slap myself for my fake cheery voice and ridiculous line. But he smiles and hops into his car. "Oh, and Em?" he calls as I turn away. "Make your own luck." ~~~~ I think about his words as I walk. Make your own luck. It's something he had always believed in. He had always thought of luck as something you could form. I had always thought of it as something that formed me. I hug myself as the first few drops of cold rain plop onto my bare arms. Make your own luck. Maybe I will. But Luck seems to disagree, for at that very moment, the clouds begin to sob gallons of pent-up tears. "Eeeh!" I squeal and run for the closest cover, but I'm soaked and shivering by the time I make it to Clover Leaf Cafe. I pull on the door, but it refuses to open. “Closed,” a sign cheerfully informs. “AHHHG!” I shout into the rain. And then I see the black cat. He is sitting behind me, watching me. His eyes seem to glow with evil intent. “No, no, no…” My voice is a whimper. Luck is chasing me, stalking me, but it is the dark kind. Slowly, I back away from the cat, my heart thumping out its terror. Then, for the third time that day, I run. Change your luck, luck, luck… I chant as I race through the storm. Finally, as the rain begins to stop, I fall to my knees at the park. "Where are you, where are you, where are you?!" I mumble as I search frantically through a clover patch, my hands trembling. "Em?" I turn around with a start. It was him. Again. "H-hi!" I squeak out. "What on earth are you doing, Em?" "Heh, heh, heh... you know, that's actually a really funny and really long story... Heh, you know?" I look down, trying to avoid his eyes. "And yeah, heh, heh... you probably don't have time to hear it..." And that's when I see it: a perfect four leaf clover. Time seems to freeze, all sound drowns out, and a spotlight seems to illuminate that perfect, life changing clover. "YES!" I scream and dive for the clover. "Yes! OOOOhhh, yes! Yes! Yes!" I laugh with delight. "Yes!" I feel happy tears squeeze out of my eyes. Finally, my luck will change. That's when I notice that I'm lying on my belly, cradling a weed, at Ian's feet. Like, literally at his feet. The clover had been plucked from right by his shoe. I slowly look up at my old friend and feel a blush cover my face. Embarrassment and shame rush up, and all my ecstasy leaves me like air from a balloon. I pull myself to a sitting position and look back down at the grass. "Hi." I refuse to look up at him as he crouches down beside me for the second time that day. But then his hand gently touches mine. "Can I see it?" I jerk, surprised by his touch but more surprised by his gentle voice. He keeps his eyes on my closed hands. Slowly, I unclench my fingers. It's funny: the clover that had looked so magical to me less than a minute ago looks dead and useless now. I feel so stupid. Had I really believed a weed would solve my problems? Had I really thought clenching it in my hands would give me luck? What had I even planned to do with it? Carry it around in my pocket? My shoes? But Ian doesn't call me stupid. Ian doesn't ask me these questions. Instead, he gently picks it out of my hand and turns it in his fingers. Finally, he meets my eyes. "It's pretty." "I'm so stupid." "Em, the last thing you are is stupid." I look down at my hands. "Desperate, then." "Yes," he agrees, "desperate. The question is, why?" "I don't know." I don't know why I feel so lost, why I'm chasing luck when I'm not even sure it exists. I don't know why I became like this. I don't even know exactly when or why it started. With a long, gentle finger, Ian lifts my chin. "What happened, Em?" What happened, Emely? I've been asked that question so many times by now. Why are you getting bad grades? Why can't you control your emotions? Why can't you keep a job? What happened? How did you become such a failure? No one, though, had asked it the way Ian did. No one else had asked it wanting to actually listen. So, I tell him everything. I start all the way back at my freshman year of college; I had been an English major. I had wanted to become a teacher, to inspire others to write, to show them the power I thought I had found in grammar and words. Everything was great at first. I loved my classes. I had friends. My roommate was the best. But slowly things just got worse. I missed home: my mom's constant positivity, my dad and my brother's endless discussions, my sister's passion, my grandfather's solemn voice. Sometimes I couldn’t make it out of bed; sometimes I couldn’t sit still. I thought it was just from the pressure--finals were near and my family expected nothing less than perfection--so I pushed through, passed my classes decently, and crashed home for winter break. "Emely," my father had said after calling me into his giant office. "We understand that the first semester was tough and that you had to adjust; that is to be expected. But you need to pull yourself together now, alright? Your future depends on it." So, I went back to school in the spring and tried, but every time I failed, every mistake I made piled on top of me like bricks until I had built a house of failure. A house that I could not escape. Everything got worse: I would go a whole week barely leaving my room and then one where I could barely stay in it. That's when my roommate, a psychology major, made me go to the Wellness Center. They helped me set up an appointment with a psychiatrist, and he diagnosed me with Bipolar 2. It made sense. It made me feel better. I was prescribed a medication and met up with the psychiatrist several times. Somehow, knowing what was going on made everything more manageable. I was even able to pass all my classes. But then I came home. My family is perfect. They are all beautiful and polished and healthy and successful. They seemed to have always been that way. A perfect chain made up of strong, shiny links. Until I came home and revealed that I was the weak link. No, they said. This is ridiculous. You just have to toughen up, stop being so weak, stop buying whatever you are told, my father thought. Sleep more, maybe, said my mother. Eat more healthy. Maybe she just isn't driven, wondered my brother. Maybe she has no passion, questioned my sister. Whatever it is, decided my grandfather, she most definitely does not need a shrink! So, I stopped seeing the psychiatrist and stopped taking meds. I went back to school in the fall, but I was dropped from my classes by mid-term. Then Emely the Failure came home once again. I worked at Starbucks for a while, then Food Lion. McDonald's then Walmart then a tiny gas station. Finally, my family gave up on me, and I gave up on myself. I was just the unlucky one. I was just unlucky. Ian is still beside me when I finish my tale, still twirling the four leaf clover in his hand. I try not think about the way I look: tangled hair, half in a messy-bun, half falling down my shoulders; rain-soaked pajamas with grass stuck all over; stupid tears trailing down my cheeks; and snot dripping from my nose. I wait to hear him speak. He must be disgusted by me, but I know he is too nice to say so. I know he will let kindness speak. He’ll tell me he’s sorry, just like this morning. Slowly he lifts his eyes from the clover and looks straight into mine, straight into me. "Make your own luck." I inhale a quick, sharp gulp of air. Make your own luck. He said it as if there was still a chance. He said it as if I wasn't hopeless, as if I could still form my own fate. ~~~~ "Alright," I shout over the noise of students scrambling to pack up their notebooks and pens. "Don't forget that your final drafts are due this Thursday! After that, it's just finals! You're almost at the end! You got this!" With that my students leave. Some hurry off to their next class without looking back, while others send me a wave or a smile or a "thank you." "Professor Patrick?" One student, Lydia Sidel, steps up to my desk as I erase the white board. A few others line up behind her. "Can I ask you a question..." Once I have helped them all, I walk down the hall to my small office to wait for my next class. I talk to a few other professors and students as I go. "Professor Patrick! Remember me from the spring?" Of course I remember him; I remember all my students. I talk to him for a few minutes, and he tells me about his plans. I smile because I know that his future is bright. He has to go, but as he walks away, he calls one last thing over his shoulder: "Thank you!" My heart is full of sunshine and dancing flowers when I finally make it to my office. It's the same one I've had since I started teaching here, seven years ago. It's also the same community college that changed my life. After that day with the clover leaf, I started seeing a psychiatrist again. I worked any job I could get until I had saved enough to start taking classes part time. It has been a long journey, filled with many more days of running and rain and tears, but also days of laughter and triumph. The journey isn't over yet. I sit down at my desk and look up at the wall across from me. There, pressed against a white paper and surrounded by a wooden frame, is the four-leaf clover I found at Ian's feet. Above it, on the white paper, are the words "make your own luck." I smile.


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Standing on the rickety front porch of Reiner Hall, I could already see the top of the blaze from across the road, and down the open field in the center of campus. The annual Fall Fire Fest at Linfeld School was a tradition no one knew the true origin of. I like to imagine it was a wholesome gathering of students who enjoyed kicking off the season by coming together to enjoy a big bonfire together and catch up on each other’s summer happenings. If I close my eyes I can almost see the young men dressed in their slacks, high-end polos and fresh sweaters slung casually across their shoulders as they ambled in their brown leather loafers nearer to the fire’s warmth. Many of them are walking hand-in-hand with their steady girlfriends whose beauty is amplified by the warm orange glow of the massive bonfire. Instead, I open my eyes and see boys in dirty ripped jeans, fitted V-neck shirts, and over-priced sneakers carrying red solo cups filled with who knows what.

It’s only just 7:30, but it’s already dark out. The street lamps along the busy main road and the giant blaze are the only sources of light, but the night is mild enough not to need a jacket. As I made my way to the street crossing, pressing the button to set off the blinking pedestrian crossing lights along the perimeter of the large yellow signs above, I adjusted my bag on my already sore right shoulder. With my laptop and British Literature anthologies in tow, that shoulder must be bearing a good 15 pounds of academia on it. Walking along the main path from the dorm halls across the road from campus, I start to smell the burning leaves. The smell is absolutely intoxicating and immediately transports me to childhood. The leaves poetically fall beside me from the trees lining the path almost as if purposely abetting my nostalgic reverie — creating and then jumping into piles of leaves, fresh notebooks, new shoes, and a new year of teachers and books to read. A time of simple pleasures. A time of innocence and hope unencumbered by pain. A time before time meant anything other than when to eat and sleep.

The approaching library doors ended my depressing musings for the moment. I quickly scanned the first floor — not a single person was in the library other than the girl behind the desk. I could sit anywhere, but I know I’d just sit in my usual spot. Walking up the stairs to the third floor, I made my way to the table closest to the furthest window and started unpacking the contents of my bag. My laptop quickly awoke and my assignment was already up on the screen awaiting my return. Finding the correct place in my notes, I reread the section circled in red pen and heavily underlined in thick black pen strokes: “don’t restrain your voice.” Those were the exact words my advisor used. Her advice wasn’t totally wrong — I was restrained, but it wasn’t a voice issue. Restraining your voice insinuates that you know what you want say, but purposely aren’t saying it. But my problem is really a perspective issue, in that I have none. Just as I was about to awake my now sleeping computer, I noticed someone at the very last cubicle seat at the opposite end of the room. He seemed to be frantically rifling through his worn backpack in the hopes of uncovering whatever item it is that he needed, but to no avail. His thick rimmed glasses were slightly askew and his dark wavy hair was flatteringly tousled, adding to the overall frenetic effect. Returning to my laptop, I opened up a new tab in the browser and began typing. Before I could finish though, the guy across the room somehow silently transported himself right next to my table, startling me. I must’ve shown my surprise because he looked at me contritely when he spoke. “Hi, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was just over there looking for my notebook when I remembered I was sitting over here earlier today, so I thought I’d come over to look for it here.” Pausing to catch his breath briefly he hurriedly continued, “No one is ever in the library on a Friday night especially on Fall Fest night, so I didn’t notice you over here until I was right up on you.” He blushed at his blundered use of the common college colloquialism. He started to mutter something to clarify what he meant, but I spoke before he could further embarrass us both.

“I haven’t seen a notebook, but I only just got here. Feel free to take a look,” I said uninterestedly as I returned to my laptop.

He must’ve noticed my massive anthologies next to me on the table because he said, “I’m guessing that isn’t casual Friday night reading,” as he nodded his head toward the books and smirked at his own humor. He was so close I could see his eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiled. It gave him the effect of age even though he clearly wasn’t older than nineteen and looked barely over sixteen.

I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I wasn’t in the mood for any talk, really. Isn’t that the point of being in the library on a Friday night? It’s very clearly a loner move. I didn’t want to be unfriendly, I just wanted to be left alone. “No, but I have read most of them for pleasure already,” I said with a quick glance in his direction, and then just as quickly returning to my computer screen. “Oh yeah? I guess I have too,” he said with a casual shrug, his frayed backpack strap slipping off his right shoulder.

He removed the remaining tattered strap from his shoulder and placed the backpack on the chair across from me. He bent down to look beneath the table, presumably for his lost notebook.

“I don’t know where it could’ve gone. I know I had it with me earlier. I remember writing in it over here,” he said distractedly as he pointed to the tabletop to the left of where he was standing. I didn’t respond because I didn’t know how to. Was he looking for something comforting like, ‘I’m sure it’ll turn up’ or ‘I always lose things too” or was he just musing out loud without expecting a response?

Realizing he was just standing there distractedly for an awkward beat, he forced himself to snap out of his inner replay of his day. “Well, no luck here,” he shrugged. “But listen, thanks for letting me invade your space to look for it. I’ll leave you and old Ollie to it.” I looked at him puzzlingly. I was beginning to be concerned about his sanity — does he see another person sitting at the table with me and named him Ollie?

Seeing that I didn’t have a clue what he was getting at, he chuckled and said, “Sorry, I call my British Literature anthology old Ollie, sometimes old chap. It’s something my father used to do.”

His eyes crinkled again warmly as he smiled at the memory. I’m not sure why, but I couldn’t help but smile back. I guess I’m a sucker for a guy who has a nice relationship with his father seeing as that’s a completely foreign concept to me.

“Anyway,” he continued not at all awkwardly, “I’m sorry again for interrupting. Maybe I can make it up to you with a cup of coffee?” He said as he looked at me expectantly.

I didn’t know what to say. Actually, I didn’t want to say what I was thinking, which was, ‘Why in the hell would I go get coffee with someone whose name I don’t even know and who just stumbled upon me five minutes ago?’ But even more confusingly, what I found myself wanting to say despite what I was thinking was, ‘Sure, why not.’ I mean in all honesty I know I’m not going to get anything accomplished with this paper tonight, and if I’m being really honest with myself, I’m terribly lonely. As much of a loner I’ve become in the past few years, it’s certainly not out of enjoying being alone. It’s just how it always ends up being, so I’ve tried to accept it — embrace it even. All of this was running through my head while he was standing in front of me, which made me realize I waited way too long to respond to him now.

He didn’t seem to mind waiting. Instead, he took the opportunity to take a seat across from me, turn to my anthology and say, “As long as that’s okay by you, Ollie.” I genuinely chuckled at his joke, which put me momentarily at ease. Figuring I have nothing to lose, I smiled and said, “What makes you think the girl who’s in the library on a Friday night would be the same girl to take you up on your invitation?”

He contemplated my question for a bit. To him, it seemed there was a right and wrong way to answer — that it was a test and if he passed, I’d consent to coffee. But he was wrong, it wasn’t a test, not for him anyway.

Before he could answer, I continued, “I don’t even know your name.” His response was immediate: “Knowing my name won’t make a difference though, will it?” He was right, it wouldn’t. Knowing his name was meaningless. Knowing his name wouldn’t tell me if he was a good person, or if he was worthy of having coffee with. Knowing his name didn’t really tell me anything about him other than what his parents decided they wanted to call their small, squishy baby over nineteen years ago.

As if reading my mind, he looked directly in my dark brown eyes and said, “Not knowing something is still knowing something else. You know?” I did know. I knew exactly what he meant. Looking back into his disarmingly, precociously compassionate eyes, I reached for my anthology and fingered the thin pages along the bottom corner. I could tuck the book back into my bag, close my laptop and leave my favorite table on the third floor of the library empty, to silently keep the desolate rows of books company. I could also stay and sit contentedly knowing that not knowing something is still knowing something else.


From the time we are born, even minutes old, we start learning to please someone. We are unaware of our surroundings. We feel heat, cold, and we hear loud sounds. Crying and screaming are our only means of communication. We know nothing about love or how to please someone into feeding us or keeping us warm. That warmth and the feeling of belonging is a feeling we spend a lifetime trying to recapture. I think I was an hour old when my mother put me in that trash can. Within minutes my big brother's tiny hands pulled me out. I cried and he held me close to his chest as he took me to a neighbor's house. My mother would have a total of five children before the state took us away. The orphanage was full of kids, like the five of us, who were trying to please someone else. We all wanted to belong. We all wanted to be loved. All living creatures seek that sense of belonging. My sister and I were very fortunate when we were adopted by two wonderful people. However, learning to belong still presented me with challenges. My grandmother was my closest friend. I guess you could say were kindred spirits. I had no doubt about her love for me and she had no doubt about my love for her. Sometimes, even then, I had to pick out a switch and get a wack on the bottom to get through my stubbornness. Sometimes my logic was not exactly accurate. I also remember my grandmother telling me the only person I ever really had to please was myself. I had to believe in myself or no one else would. Then she added it might be a good idea to please the person who cooks your meals. We both giggled on that one because she was a good cook and knew all my favorites. Once a little boy she was babysitting started making fun of me. He was surprised when I looked at him and apologized. I said "I am so sorry. I do not know how you got the idea I cared about what you think." I then skipped away and left him there trying to figure out what to do with the mud pies I had prepared so carefully. Maybe it had something to do with being a little boy. He came in for lunch with mud on his face. He was trying to tattle to my grandmother that I had fed him mud pies. I instantly jumped up and yelled, "You ate my bug pies? I made those with flies for the frogs and lizards in the yard. Now, I have to make them all over again." I think that is the day he decided not to eat lunch. My grandmother got a chuckle out of it. I know she did because I overheard her telling Aunt Lilly about it on the phone. I was reminded of this incident just last week. Becky, the little girl who lives here on the Funny Farm with me and Barbra, my caretaker. Betty, Becky's mother, manages the house and Barbra manages the farm. It has worked out well for all of us. Betty and Becky are both little people. Becky had a birthday recently and I gave her Sidekick, a miniature horse for her very own. She and Sidekick walk together and even ride together since we had the saddle made. Betty was concerned that Becky was not learning how to get along with other children. Since they had come to stay with me there was no need for her to go to daycare anymore. I had the brilliant idea of going to talk to the school board and find out if any of the teachers would like to one, recommend a school for Becky to start in the fall and,  two,  one that would enjoy coming to the farm for a day of picnics and fun. My grandmother always said breaking bread with others is the best way to get to know them. I have learned over the years that sometimes, like diamonds, brilliant ideas need to have some careful cutting and polishing done before the shine or sparkle shows. They are call facets. We had two kindergarten groups coming for the day. We worked very hard to make sure every safety issue was handled. We actually put a gate across the tree that stretches out over the pond. We did not need anyone falling into the pond. I knew if anyone saw how it works like a ramp they would be tempted, just like me, to walk up the trunk. Everyone turns at the same time to overlook the area and slips right into the pond. The gate kept that from happening. Things were going along wonderfully. The parents were having as much fun as the children. Becky seemed to be getting along wonderfully with everyone. No one seemed to be upset over Becky and Betty being little people. All the animals were helping take care of entertaining the children. Tarzan, the African grey parrot was singing, Oscar and Grammy (the pet squirrels) were chatting away. Even Loverboy and Mrs. Holcomb (his mate) were spitting at bull's eye targets. We had worked for weeks on that one. When you have two llamas who hate anyone in uniform, especially men,  you have to make adjustments. We had stretched out several bedspreads as picnic blankets. We had even finished with the third picnic table just in time. Barbra was so talented. She turned out to be a very good carpenter.  She was really great at managing the farm.  Breaking bread would be easier on everyone if it was done casually. I knew we could accommodate the two groups we expected. The party had been going on for about an hour. We had hamburgers, fried chicken, and hot dogs. French fries, mac and cheese, and a veggie medley worked as side dishes. We had chocolate cream pie, blueberry pie, and apple pies for desserts. We even had homemade ice cream (vanilla) to top off anything. Then the party took on a whole new tone. There was a small group, a third group of party crashers. This group decided they needed to explain some things to the rest of us. There seemed to be three sets of parents within the group. Each one had children who had started having problems with the other kids. The oldest of the little boys was six. He seemed to think it was funny to take the other kids' plates and turn them over in the dirt. He then stepped on their foot. He laughed at them and created nicknames for each one he encountered. The situation came to a head when Becky came crying to me. It was apparent that she had been pushed down because she was all skinned up and had dirt all over the front of her shirt and jeans. "Help us, Jane, help us. We have some mean kids here." I looked in the direction from which Becky had run and saw a little boy kick another little girl in the back. There did not seem to be a reason. Then I watched over the grown-ups to see if I could determine to which set of parents he belonged. I realized what was happening. Three men and three women seemed to actually three couples who had one child each at the party. The two little girls were being cruel to the animals and hitting everyone else with sticks. "Why does he not like me? I gave him my lunch like he asked me to. I even told him I was sorry I got in his way when he pushed me down. Why, Ms. Jane?" "Becky, do you like yourself?" She wiped her tears away. "Yeah. Then that is all that matters. You are the one you have to please, not him. Why would you care what he thinks? He is not important to you. What you think of yourself is the most important. Remember that as long as you like yourself when it is over... you are all right." I gathered a few of the other parents along with two teachers. It seemed that these parents or at least two of the men and one of the women were also new teachers that were going to start in the new school year. I had the other parents start watching to make sure the other kids did not get hurt. I excused myself and went inside and call the friend I had on the school board. I told her she would need to call another member of the board because they were needed and to come immediately as my guest. I knew she lives about two miles away and it would not take long for her to get here. I whispered to leaders of the two invited groups told them that the thing we needed was a wake-up call for these people. They have been in the dark so long they can't see the light. Remember the golden rule I think it is time to put it into action. What I did not know is that Becky had heard every word I said about our plans to save the picnic. Mrs. Baxster showed up in record time. Two more board members followed soon after. I pointed out the children and then the parents. She watched for a few minutes. She whispered to her colleges. I also told her about the golden rule idea. Brilliant? Maybe. I clapped my hands and yelled for everyone to come to the bank of the pond where the area had been cleared to make room for everyone. "Grab your deserts and meander right this way." I pointed as people started strolling towards the pond.  When we got there I unlocked the gate on the tree that stretched out over the pond. I stood there, holding onto the gate, and started to speak... "Lady, we don't need to hear a lecture."  The man is the one who had been pointed out as one of the new teachers. "We only came out today to find out what kind of brats we would have to put up with when school starts. I tell you what, why don't you come on down and let me address this group of know-nothings." The man was surprised when I smiled and stepped aside to let him go up a little higher on the tree. He had fallen in the pond by the time I got to the base of the tree. His son started to run straight to his dad when Becky came riding up on Sidekick. Sidekick had been rescued from the circus where he had carried water buckets for the clowns.  Becky took the bucket from Sidekick.  She just poured the whole bucket over the little boy. The others in the crasher's group started trying to help the man who was now screaming in the pond for someone to get him out. We all knew the root from the tree was under the water. The group of would-be party crashers got hit with blueberry pie, apple pie, and even a cart of barn scrappings from when the barn was mucked out.  I would call that breaking bread the hard way.  I knew one thing the farm animals were going to have a blast cleaning up the mess.  Hamstring,  our pot-bellied pig will think he is in heaven. I clapped my hands again. The man was still yelling. He was now cursing and calling the rest of us some very nasty names. My friend from the school board yelled over to him and told him to stand up. Then everyone told him to stand up. He did so. "Imagine that, all that hullabaloo over three feet of water." He started to speak when my friend yelled for silence. "I want to make sure all three of you and your spouses understand what I am saying. You are fired. You will not be working in any school in this district. We have just had a meeting of the school board and you, sir have been voted off the island.  I will also send my report on your conduct to every school board in Texas." The man's wife started to speak when their little boy started crying about being wet. Becky walked up to the kid. "You are a lot like your father. You make a lot of noise about a little bit of water. We only did to you what you did to us.  It is the golden rule.  I was proud of Becky.  She was a little person, six years old, eighteen inches high but she had mastered standing up for herself. The man, now out of the pond and shaking water off himself, pointed his finger at me and said, "You want to know what I think?" I looked him straight in the eye and said, "I am so sorry, I have no idea how you got the idea that I cared what you think. I do apologize for making you think that." Everyone laughed. Becky turned to the little boy and said, "I really do not care if I ever please you." The party crashers started to their cars within minutes after Becky's statement got a round of applause. We were all settled in for more food and fun when Becky came out of the barn riding Loverboy. It was a surprise, to say the least. "  Anyone for a little target practice?" Becky had a grin across her face. She and Loverboy galloped to the edge of the drive. Loverboy did one of his spitballs and it landed right on the back of the man's neck as he was getting into his car after Oscar had closed the gate behind them. When she got back I started to ask...Becky looked at me and simply said, "Because it pleased me." We all laughed. I could tell I was going to have to fine-tune my lessons with Becky going forward. One thing that was for sure she would never again lose her own self-worth while trying to please someone else. Another thing the day had taught me. We belong in this wonderful little community. Finding a place to belong is fundamental.  It is natural to want to please someone we care about but the only one we really have to please is ourselves.  How do you feel about yourself when it is all over? Grandmother was right. Breaking bread with someone is the best way to get to know them.


Shady Pines has one street that is very quiet. Cars rarely drive by. Kids don't play in the street near one house in particular. Old Man Henry's house. He never leaves the house, and all his food is delivered right to his door. He sits in the window, staring into the street, waiting for a kid to go on his lawn. Then he flies through the wall, grabs the kid, and takes them into the house, where he eats them. And the house is haunted by a whole bunch of ghosts. At least, that's what my neighbor Kay Alfred says. He always tells tall tales, trying to get attention. After he told me the story, he dared me to go inside, and said that he would give me 20 dollars to do it. We walked to the house, Kay trying to tell me it wouldn’t work. He just didn’t want to pay me. I started walking up to the porch while Kay chuckled behind me. The house sure looked haunted, with grey, peeling paint, rusted shutters, and dead grass. When I got to the porch, it creaked and groaned like a dying cow. I steeled nerves, then knocked on the old rusty door before I chickened out. I heard noises behind and in front of me. Banging from the house, and sneakers running down the sidewalk. Kay was ditching me! The door squeaked open and Old Man Henry poked his head out. He seemed like a normal old man, so I said hello. He groused in a gruff voice ,“What do you want?” so I asked to come in. He let me in, and we chatted for a while. He told me his story. “I was a young man when I moved here, way before you had been born. I had a beautiful wife named Lucy Moor. We had moved from Idaho, and wanted a quiet place to live together. Sadly, the trip got her sick. She went to a doctor, but no one could help. She died, and I have lived alone for the last 25 years, mourning her loss.” That was so sad. I told him I would visit him, maybe bring my mom and dad. He smiled and showed me the rest of his house. It was a normal house, nothing haunted or creepy about it. We talked until the sun was starting to set, me telling him stories about myself, him telling me about what everything was like in his day. Turns out he's just an old man who misses his wife and wants a little company. I introduced Mom and Dad and we visited him for five more years, until he died in his sleep. He was a good friend, and I still miss him a little bit, but now he’s up with his love, and they will stay together forever. Every month, I go to his house. He left most of the stuff there to me, seeing as he was an only child, with no kids and no friends but me. I always clean up the dust, then turn on the record player. I read while letting it play, losing myself to the book and the music. No one else ever visited him. I always tried to get them to, but they all thought I was nuts. Some even thought I was trying to get them “eaten”. It hurt a little, especially when Kay spread the rumor I would kidnap people and send them to Mr. Henry. When we moved into middle school it sort of stopped. Most people were nicer, and if Kay tried to make fun of others (specifically me) others stood up for me. Henry was forgotten, and they started harassing the old lady who lived in a nearby neighborhood. They called her Witch Elinor, and egged her house on Halloween. I say everyone forgot Henry, but I never did. I made new friends, but they were new. We talked about boys and clothes. I never talked about the 60’s or how I knew who sang Send Me A Postcard. (A guy called Shocking Blue) I may try to make a new old friend. I might try to talk to Elinor. She could have come from a far country, or have lost her husband like Henry had. She needed a friend, and the stories about her were probably 99.9% imagination. Sure the house was purple and weird, and the roses bushes were a dark purple, but that just may be he favorite color. Another year passed, and my life got a little more busy. I had a club, band, and schoolwork. Still, no matter what, I still visit Henry’s house, put on the record, and look through his photo albums. I still needed to read one more but I got too busy to read it. About three weeks later, it was summer. I wanted to see that album. When I opened it I saw a note written in blue pen. It said “ Dear Miley, I wanted to thank you for the wonderful company you gave me. In all the long years I lived here, I wanted to talk to people, but I couldn't leave the house I had wanted to be in with my love. Others were too scared to come. Then you came and filled each day with stories and laughter. Eventually, I was brave enough to leave the house. Thanks to you, I saw all of this town. When you read this I will be long gone, but you carry my memory inside. Stay bold, Henry ” I was touched. He cared about me. Many years passed, and I went away to college. I told my parents to dust the house every month, and play his record while they did it. I left for three years. When I got back, his house was still there. I moved in and started to write. I wrote his story. Even when I grew up and got married, I lived in Henry’s house. I raised my family here, and even though we remodeled, I kept all his old stuff upstairs. Everyday, after work, I still go upstairs and listen to that old record.


The hospital smells like chemicals. I feel a dull ache in my head, the hours I've spent waiting in this room finally getting to me. I look down at my shoes, the mud now caked and dry on the bottom from running here in the rain. I heard the news about four hours ago. I was sitting in my room, cross-legged on my bed watching TV, when the phone rang. "Hello?" I asked. "Hi. Is this Stacy Abrams?" I slid off my bed, the phone still in my hand, as a crack of lightning struck the sky outside. I turned to face the window as the dark night flashed white for a second. "Yes, this is her," I said, my eyes still focused on the storm outside. "Is something wrong?" "You're friends with Allie Jenkins, right?" I furrowed my brows, pressing the phone closer to my ear. "Yeah, I am. Why?" There was a muffled sound, and then Allie's mom talked. "Stacy honey, can you hear me?" My heart started beating faster. "Yeah, yeah I can, what's going on?" Her voice sounded scratchy. "Allie was hit by a car. It was dark and the car slid a bit because of the rain. You should get here." I felt my stomach hit the floor. A sick feeling spread through my body like ice. It was hard to form words. "Is she ok?" I asked, the question shaky in my mouth. Her mom took a deep breath, audible enough that I could hear it through the phone. "She's going into emergency surgery. There's a, a lot," she stuttered. "A lot of internal bleeding. We're all here. It's the hospital only a mile or two from you. It would mean a lot if you could be here." I was already out the door. Allie was the first person to really make me laugh. I met her when I was six, at school, and the rest was history. I wish there was a way to capture Allie and show it to you. Everything about her is infectious. Her laugh, smile, good and bad moods. Whatever she feels, I instantly feel. She has platinum hair. It's always soft, making her the perfect subject of my hair braiding. I like combing my fingers through her hair and feeling it on my bare shoulders when she hugs me and it cascades over my arms. Her laugh too. It's sudden, like a stack of plates hitting the floor. It sort of gurgles out of her. It's so loud, so un-elegant, so un-Allie that it always makes me smile. I used to lay awake at night a lot, wondering if I loved her. The way I look at her is the way someone could gaze at the stars, searching for every familiar constellation, connecting the dots till they see the picture. I studied her. When we read together, I'd look up from my book to glance at her, the way her hair fell forward in a curtain as she leaned down to see the words more clearly. She always chewed her lip when she read. I could be having heart palpations on the floor and she wouldn't look up. Allie was frustratingly perfect. Pretty, and fun, and too smart. I loved that she was mine. I loved looking at her. We have a creek, that we always go to. At least twice a week, for as long as I can remember. You have to push through the woods next to the road until you find a clearing. There's a lot of grass and daisies, as well as the rushing of the water trickling through stones and sticks. When we were younger, we'd sit and make daisy crowns, or splay out on a blanket and listen to the water. We'd make little boats with twigs and leaves and bend down, slowly placing our creations in the water and watching them glide momentarily down the stream before sinking. The creek was our secret. That spot was something we never showed anyone. I hear a scream from the hospital lobby. Nurses look up, their eyes in the direction of my left. I turn to see a doctor with Allie's parents. Allie's mom cries, falling to the ground in a crumple. Her husband is holding her, blocking her body from my view. I get up immediately. "What is it?" I ask, running to them. Allie's mom looks up at me, her face red and wet. "She didn't make it, Stacy." I feel my blood draining from my head. It becomes hard to breathe. Tears well in my eyes, and escape with no warning. I turn to the doctor, hot tears blurring my vision. "She was fifteen!" I cry. My bottom lip shakes. "Fifteen!" He nods solemnly, a sad mist in his eyes. "You couldn't do more?!" I scream. "She was a baby! She'd never even kissed anyone!" He takes my hand slowly. The warm pressure makes me fall to the floor. "She was so young," I choke. Allie's mom moves beside me. I feel her arms around me. They're so fragile I fear they'll break. My shoulders heave and I sink into her. I never realized before how small she was. The next morning, I walk to the creek. The air is warm and hugs me. I've never been alone on this walk before. Every step is loud, every chirp noticeable. The quiet encloses me. I reach the clearing and sit for a second. The flowers around me sway with the breeze. I pick a daisy, rubbing the stem in between my fingers. Allie looked like an impf when she had daisies in her hair. The sunlight streams through the tree leaves, bathing me in a familiar warmth. I breathe slowly, trying to alleviate the heaviness in my chest. I walk past the clearing, pushing through the plants and weeds till I get to the edge of the creek. The water is cold and clear. I take the daisy I picked and lower it, dipping the petals into the water. I take it back out. The petals are now dark and limp from being wet, breaking when I rub them, the pieces falling back in the water with every motion. They go down one by one, creating a trail of yellow. The creek flows the same way Allie's hair did in blonde locks. I picture the same yellow trail, intricately woven in one of her braids, and know this is the first and last time I'll go to the creek without her.


‘Now this is the kind of place I want’ she said to herself eyeing the modern two story house like a green eyed monster. ‘Look at the finish on it – it’s perfect. I love the shutters on the front windows. The immaculate garden with those large ornate pots on the wide veranda - just to die for! I could sit here all day’. Then she looked at her watch and realised that she couldn’t sit here for a minute longer or she would be late back to work, and an important meeting. “Where did you go to eat your lunch?” Jessie was asked by her friend – one of the directors of the company. Fiona was such a down to earth woman and acted no differently towards executives or juniors. “Oh I just drove through the new estate looking at the houses and drooling”. “They are well out of your reach, you know that don’t you?’ Fiona reminded her. “Not necessarily. Remember that movie the other night, what was it called? Oh yes, ‘The Salesman’, well that woman in it thought lots of things were out of her reach but it didn’t stop her, did it?” “No it didn’t but she wasn’t happy and I didn’t like that movie anyway”. Fiona had been Jessie’s friend for a long time and knew everything about her, including the fact that with her, the grass was always greener on the other side, but she had found out a few times that it isn’t always. “Hello I’m home” she called to her partner Ben when she had shut the front door behind her. “How was your day? “He asked giving her a hug from behind. “Yeah good, long but alright” she replied “I went looking at the new estate in my lunch break. You know all those lovely houses” she told him turning around to face him and thinking how short he seemed when she had high heels on. She hadn’t really noticed before so maybe it was the new shoes she was wearing. “And?” he asked, already knowing what she would say, and that this perhaps was the start of another ‘discussion’ about where they lived. “Oh I don’t know Ben but it’s just that I’m sick of living in a tiny flat. You said we would only be here for a couple of years and it’s already nearly three” she said twiddling his hair as the ‘touchy feely’ approach would get a positive response from him. “We’ve been through this Jessie. If I hadn’t of been injured in that car accident and unable to work for so long we wouldn’t have eaten into our savings but we did. There’s nothing we can do about it in the short term. And before realising he shouldn’t have said it, out of his mouth came “and if you didn’t actually spend so much of your wages it would be helpful”! She dropped her hand off of his head straight away; angry at what he just said and letting her annoyance get the better of her yelled “Well other people can live in lovely homes, have nice cars and actually enjoy their lives, but not us. The house needs painting, we’ve still only got one bathroom, and my car is well passed its use date! What if I do spend my money? I care what I look like, unlike some! Well I’ve had enough. I’m going out”. With that she grabbed her bag and headed into town. “I’m going to the movies” she told herself as she was driving. It was another modern love story. She’d only just seen one like this at the weekend and loved it. Jessie even loved the ads that came on before the movie! When Ben ever came to the movies with her he was always disgruntled at how much advertising they had to ‘put up with’ before the film and he usually went through his phone while they were on. ‘Oh look at the outfit she has on…how gorgeous’ played over in Jessie’s mind each time a new outfit appeared on the screen. I wonder if I can get that anywhere.’ The loved up couple of the big screen seemed to have a never ending supply of money. They left their state of the art home to go out to dinner at ‘The Gentry” a five star restaurant where the tanned, beautiful staff served scallops with spring salad followed by native lobster, and all the while the stars of the movie talked about their next holiday which by the way they would be jetting away to in a friends private jet. And while eating a chocolate mousse and sipping a dessert wine laughed at the antics they got up to on the tennis court earlier. ‘Oh he is so handsome and so much taller than she is’ thought Jessie remembering how short Ben seemed today. ‘And he’s so in love with her. Imagine receiving a diamond bracelet and matching earrings for your birthday’ she sighed remembering the heat pack, sports socks and movie tickets she got for hers. When Jessie got home after the movies Ben was sitting in the lounge listening to music but as soon as she walked in he stood up and went over to give her a hug. “Let’s not argue honey, it’s not worth it. We’ll have enough money to move somewhere else one day, I promise” and he kissed her on the cheek. “Yeah I suppose so” she acquiesced while thinking “But not to buy the kind of house I want to live in”. Every time Jessica went off to the movies it seemed to pique her desire to have something better in life. She had been brought up in a humble family – mum and dad and four kids. Her parents were quite content with nine to five jobs for both of them, a holiday each year camping in the forest and meat and three veg. for most dinners. Jessie was happy with her life too while growing up, but not now. When Ben came home one evening from work informing an already irritated Jessie that he had taken an extra job to help with the savings, instead of showing him that she appreciated the extra work he would be doing, she was annoyed. “You’ll be doing what? Packing shelves at night? Is that the best you can do?” she asked in her ‘whatever next?’ voice. “What does it matter what I’m doing as long as it’s bringing in the money?” Ben asked her, once again disappointed at what she thought was important. “Well someone might see you?” “The store is closed at that time of night, and so what if someone sees me?” “Actually Jessie I’ve been meaning to ask you about all the money that comes out of the account each fortnight – you just take it out so I’m not sure what it’s for?” “I knew you wouldn’t notice but I’ve been having botox around my eyes for a while now and my teeth have been whitened AND in case you’re interested I’ve been putting money away in a different account to have a tummy tuck!” “What?” said Ben asked hardly believing what he was hearing? What do you want Botox for? You’re twenty seven years of age, not fifty seven and you’re beautiful as you are. You had lovely teeth anyway and what tummy?” “Oh you wouldn’t understand. You don’t care what you look like do you?’ “I care but I don’t need to look perfect. That’s not the real world”. She didn’t care what Ben thought. Jessie knew he wouldn’t approve of any of it. “Of course he wouldn’t be happy when he found out” Fiona told Jessie the next morning in the office. “Ben’s was out of work, and in pain for ages and not through any fault of his own, and here you are squandering the money. No wonder he yelled at you”. “Oh well he won’t stop me from enhancing my looks, if he doesn’t like it too bad!” “Do you want to come and see the new movie out with ‘what’s his name’ in it…that gorgeous guy who was in ‘love has no bounds’? I think he’s just amazing with those bright blue eyes of his and being that tall and slim” “Sure. I’m not going anywhere else, so why not” said Fiona secretly thinking that her friend spent too much time at the movies and was beginning to live in a fantasy world. “Where is Ben tonight?” “Oh I’m embarrassed to tell you that he’s stacking shelves at the supermarket – to make a bit more money”. “I tell you Jessie, you have a good guy there. One of these days you’ll realise that all that stuff up on the screen is fake. Those actors are just like us, you and me. They don’t look like that when they get up in the morning – they’d have bad breath, hair all over the place, dribble marks on the pillow from sleeping with their mouth open and if they had slept badly would be rude and miserable. Of course Jessie was taken far away into the land of make believe while watching the movie. “I would love to be able to live the way those two did in that movie. They were always going on holidays and I mean ‘holidays’ and not a weekend away in an air b&b!!” she said to her friend as they sat eating pizza. “You know Jessie; I’m going to have to tell you a few home truths. You know that guy in the movie we saw tonight? Well he’s actually shorter than Ben – all of his scenes in the movie are of him standing on a box or shot at different angles so he looks taller”. “I don’t believe you Fiona. How do you know?” “You know how I lived in America before I came here – I didn’t like to say what my job entailed so I said I was a PA. Well I was a personal assistant, but to Gena Russel, the movie star. And later on when Gena Russel ‘retired’ I got a job with someone else. Have you ever heard of Reanna Jones?” she asked her friend, who by now was really paying attention. “Are you joking? You mixed with all those movie types, really? Oh of course I’ve heard of Reanna – who hasn’t? I love her. She is apparently a lovely person. And she is so beautiful”. “Well let me inform you that she is a horrible, rude, self-indulgent madame. She has been married three times because she chews men up and spits them out! I’m not sure if one part of her body hasn’t been under the knife and, sadly she is an alcoholic. “Well she’s maybe like that,  but they all aren’t…are they?” “Well ask me about someone?” Fiona invited, knowing that this would be an eye opener for her friend. “How about the main actor in the movie tonight, the female lead – I’ve read that she is lovely and generous with her money” “Generous with her money…she went through a court case with her siblings because she didn’t think they should have been entitled to anything from their mother’s will, even though they had been her step children since they were four and two years of age. And guess what, she won and they only got a fraction of what she received. Two years ago she was the highest grossing female actor in Hollywood too”. “Oh well let me see” said Jessie trying to think of someone who could be genuine and to prove her point! “Fern Jackson is not a fake, she is totally natural in looks and personality, and I can tell that from all of her movies and the interviews she gives on television. But you would know Fiona”. “Fern Jackson cannot have any more operations on her pert little nose or it will cave in! She has had more boob jobs than anyone else I knew over there and her ‘naturally svelte’ figure is because she exists on no more than a lettuce leaf and thirty cigarettes a day, oh yes and about twenty cups of black coffee!” “Mmmm, are most of them like that Fiona? There must be some real people among them” she almost begged. “Yes of course there are but they are mostly the ones who are short, chubby, wrinkled, and don’t care because they rely on their acting skills. I’m not saying that all the attractive people are fake but a lot are….they count on others to make them look beautiful and to make them sound generous, interested and real. If I hadn’t of worked with them I would still be like you Jessie, sucked in!” “But honestly I was like you before I worked over there – it’s easy to be. We all get taken in by the lies and falseness”. Jessie sat still, trying to absorb what her friend had just said. “But they do live in massive houses and go away on wonderful holidays a lot….that must be true?” “They live in houses that’s for certain, they aren’t ‘homes’ like we have. There’s nothing warm and inviting walking into one of their mansions – they don’t flop on the couch in front of the tv with a dog on their lap…like you do Fiona. And their so called ‘vacations’ are not relaxing, believe me I’ve been on a few. They spend hours getting dressed, make up on, hair done…and once they are out in public view they don’t let their guard down because they are always on show.” “You’re painting a very negative picture Fiona!” Jessie laughed. “Well it’s the truth. Remember when the four of us went on that trip together – we had saved up for such a long time for it, gone somewhere extra nice, and very pricey, we could still relax, wear what we wanted, slouch around, eat whatever and put a few kilos on….but they can’t. There is always someone watching them and they have to put on an act no matter what”. “Oh I couldn’t stand that” said Jessie “I am sorry if I put you off the movies or any of those actors but I had to set you straight!” “Oh I’ll still go to the movies and enjoy them but instead of wanting to be like them, I’ll try and appreciate not being like them, if that makes sense”. “I probably needed it, to be honest. I was getting rather carried away. And just think how happy Ben will be knowing I’m not spending all my money on ‘enhancements’ - in fact I’ll drop in and see him at the supermarket and tell him” “What a great idea” Fiona called out as Jessie got into her car, and one other thing, the actor with the bright blue eyes, they are just coloured contact lenses, and his eyes are really a dull grey colour”. And they both laughed.


Taking an old blanket, I pushed aside the carpet of dust formed on top of the heavy wood chest. My once trove of secrets and obsessions that morphed as I grew. At the age of seven it held Matchbox cars, wrestling action figures (and anything else I did not want my little brother to touch). Age twelve it held football memorabilia, at sixteen it held band shirt with dirty magazines folded neatly with them. Its final charge was to hold things I could not bear to part with after college and ready to take on the world. The lid squealed with surprise when I eased it open to reveal its hidden treasures. It had been abandoned in my parent’s attic for seventeen years. The attic existed over the house my father built and lost in the divorce, that my mother remodeled and lived with her new husband, Mark. My father never got his drinking under control and passed away from liver failure only six years after the divorce. I remember being conflicted on how to feel, alcohol always seemed more important than me, and Mark had never forgotten to pick me up from school or one of my science fairs. The attic was not as forgotten as my chest would mislead, Mark liked things orderly, some would say too orderly. There were shelves with labels, totes with labels, filing cabinets with—you guessed it—labels. Only my corner of childhood memories and random items from different moves or projects were left untouched and dust ridden. Mark’s motto has always been, if you care about something—take care of it. But it was not his job to care about my somethings. My argument remained, out of sight, out of mind. Well in sight and no longer out of mind, the chest lay bared open, patiently waiting as it had done all these years. As if not to disturb some waking creature, I plucked off the top quilt with gentle consideration and smoothed out the top, running my fingers along the different fabrics. My grandmother had made it for me. It was a gift for my college graduation. Made up of all my old band shirts, flannels, and jeans. At first, I had been upset because no one had talked to me about taking them (sure they had holes or were too small, but they were mine), after a couple weeks with it on my bed, all had been forgiven. It had been three years since my grandmother passed and I would still tear up if I thought long enough about it. That quilt and I had been through a lot. In college it proved a loyal cocoon while I ate my ice cream or boxed mac and cheese and binge watched a new series or the latest horror flick. It was there when I lost my virginity. When I moved out of state and back home. There until I met Hannah and she bought a new set. For a couple of years, it sat on my recliner in the living room, until Hannah’s interior design ideas covered the house. The quilt had made its way up here, when we got married and well, out of sight out, out of mind. I sat it aside. I will take that home. My fingers found the next item and at first my mind struggled for realization. I pulled them closer and felt a smile spread across my lips. Garbage Pail Kids trading cards. An entire binder of them. I laugh to myself as I open the cover and reveal the grotesque illustrations with clever names like Barfin’ Bart, Leaky Lindsay, and Slobby Robbie.  That’s right, I even had an Adam Bomb . I used to save all my nickels and dimes just to run down to the corner store and purchase as many packs as I could. Over the years many friends tried to buy them from me, but no price compared to the shit eating grin inspired by Large Marge. I place the binder on the opposite side of the quilt, to put back in the chest. No way they would pass Hannah’s inquiring eye. The quilt I could lean on sentiment.

“Daddy?” I hear from downstairs. “Yes, love?” “Did you find it?” I wait to respond because I can already hear small feet making their way up the steps and I want to make sure there are no slips. The stairs are kind of steep. When I see the blond pig tails bob around the corner, I smile and open my arms to receive our daughter Abigail, or as I called her Abs. Drove Hannah nuts. Even after five years, it still amazed me that Hannah and I created a tiny human and a damn cute one. Before I can shift Abs onto my knee, her neck is craning to peek into the chest, her brown eyes wide and searching. “What’s dat?” T with H’s were still a little tough. “Well, let’s see.” My hands reach back into the chest and pull out the next item. A shoe box. In it is old photographs, letters, lighters, cards, and other small mementos from high school and a little beyond. The span of time Hannah referred to as my idiotic years. Sifting through it, with a deep sigh, I agree with her and set the box in another pile to get rid of. Abs’s small hands sought the next item with eagerness, her fingers grasping onto another small box, about the same size as the shoe box, only metal and with a push lock. Its face is covered in bumper stickers saying things like, Thou shall not steal. The government hates competition. And Why does freedom cost so much? Memories of my college years flooded back, and the meetings held in the small cramped room that used to serve as a dark room, discussing different actions and political views. All nine of our members had a box like the one Abs held, not all made of metal, but containing, what we considered, essential items for a revolution. I did not have to open the box to know what I would find. A copy of Howard Zinn’s, A People’s History of the United States. A copy of Let Me Speak, by Domitila Chungara. A handwritten list of ten lessons from the Great Depression and how the people can survive it. A hunting knife. A magnesium fire starter. Newspaper articles and other obscure articles, and pocket notebooks filled with scrawling from our meetings different ideas, diagrams and statistics. We were gonna change the world and we called ourselves, The Working People’s Union. We were gonna change the world. “What’s dat?” “Love, this is dreams in a box.” An unexpected feeling of guilt washed over me as Abs traced the letters on one of the red colored stickers with a rose on it. I wanted to change the future for children everywhere so they would not have to struggle. All that ambition was shoved into a single metal box and forgotten when the system won and had me working over forty hours a week, making just enough to be comfortable. I had been comfortable. Out of sight, out of mind. I take the box from her hands and place it with the quilt. “One day, Daddy will go through the box with you. Know how I always tell you your gonna save the world?” A nod. “Well consider this a starter kit for when you are older.” “But I wanna save da world now!” So do I, I thought. “I can show you where to begin for someone strong, but pint sized.” “Okay!” I chuckle to myself and kiss the top of her head, breathing in the smell of Dove soap, the only Hannah approved soap for Abs’s sensitive scalp. “Okay.” My hand delved once again into the chest, this time rediscovering my old Philadelphia Eagles, DeSean Jackson jersey wrapped around my signed football. I put it to the side with the binder of cards and reach in again. Abs is squirming with impatience. My old Walkman came next and when I pushed the eject button to find a cassette of Bob Dylan. With a smile I hand the player to my daughter. “That will be your first lesson on saving the world. All we need are batteries.” “Bat-trees...” She repeated in a mesmerized whisper, taking the player and beginning to push buttons. I fondled around a bit until my fingers found the headphones, which I laid with the quilt. “John!” I hear Hannah call from downstairs. “Yes?” “Is she up there with you?” “I hold my finger to my lips to signal Abs to remain quiet. “Did you lose our daughter?” “John! I am serious. She begged your mother for this piece of cake, and she only took two bites!” “Only two bites of Mem’s chocolate cake?” I whispered with an exaggerated shock at Abs, who began giggling into her fists. With a glance at the steps, she whispers back. “I want to help you.” I nod and place another kiss on her head. “She is up here with me! I found the chest! We will be down in a minute or two!” “Abigail Maureen you are finishing this cake when you come down here!” Hannah called back with authority and I heard the door close. “I guess we better speed this up.” Abs nodded. I picked her up and sat her on the floor next to me. Pushing myself unto my knees, I gripped the edge of the chest and hoisted myself into better view. There were comics, my college sweatshirt, a few year books, An Airforce for Math and science award, my diploma (opened once on the day I received it), a few surviving band shirts, and books I considered necessary in case of power failure, Lord of the Rings: Trilogy, The Dark Tower Series (all seven books, plus The Wind Through the Keyhole, and a copy of Charlie the Choo-Choo), and finally Lamb by Christopher Moore (because it makes me laugh out loud). Nestled into the one corner is my desired object. My fingers feel a familiar fabric and I look at Abs, who senses my excitement. Her small fist smash into the sides of her cheeks, her lips pursing out like a fish. It took all my control not to laugh hysterically. I wanted to keep her teetering between suspense and excitement. “Did you find it?” She bounced up and down with expectation. “Maybe…” I said. “Can I have it?” “Depends…” I removed my hand from the chest and grasped within is my old friend. Puddles. Puddles was a stuffed dog. The simplest design, with floppy ears and rounded snout. I imagine at some point he had a nose, but never in any of my recollections and whatever length of fur he had was pilled tight to his worn body. His black and white eyes stared back at me through half lids looking as if I woke him from a peaceful slumber. My favorite thing had always been the beans weighted in his bottom. Given to me by my mother at birth, Puddles and I became inseparable around the age of two. I took him everywhere. The sandbox. The park. School. Sleepovers. The grocery store. My Mem’s. Everywhere. At sixteen, he watched as guardian over my room and through college he was our dorm mascot. Puddles was there the night my parents fought the big one , and when I scraped my knee something fierce trying to impress a cute girl down the street when I was eleven. Puddles watched me cry without judgement over lost friends, lovers, family. Proved a decent pillow on plane rides. A good listener for practicing speeches. He even helped me meet Hannah. A few of my buddies and I were tossing Puddles back and forth, a studying technique we used. Catch the dog. Answer the question. Our door was open, and I went to toss it to my friend Brian who had rolled his chair in front of the door, but I overshot it. It just so happened this cute blond from down the hall was walking by and it caught her in the hip. Lucky for me, she took it with a laugh and the rest is history. After college I retired him to the chest. I felt he needed safe keeping, while I collected my life and put in order. Years past and well, out of sight, out of mind. A week prior Abs was asking for a puppy. Not that I am against dogs, however Hannah and I both worked full-time, and a five-year old’s promise to take care of a living animal is not something to be trusted. So, I thought of Puddles. Maybe it was me wanting to take a trip down memory lane, or maybe it was the guilt I felt when I thought of the old dog stuffed in a chest for years after being number one. I know it is a stuffed animal, but he was more than that to me. He had been my partner in crime. My confidant. My best friend. Abs reached for Puddles, her little fingers opening and closing. I hold onto him a bit longer, but with some reservation manage to bestow the old dog into her awaiting hands. “What happened to his nose?” “I don’t know, love. I’ve had him for a long time.” “I like his fur.” “Me too. He doesn’t shed.” “Sed?” S and H’s were also a little tough. “No matter. You see he has beans in his butt, just like I said.” “Yeah…dat’s funny. How did get beans in dare?” “I don’t know. He came that way I guess.” Turning the dog around in her hands, she inspected him, and I felt my heart stop. What if she did not like him? What if she tosses him back in the chest and cries for a real puppy? She extended both of Puddles’s ears and swung him back and forth, a small smile playing on her lips. “Daddy?” “Yes, Love?” “Why is he named Puttles?” “It’s Puddles. Pud-dulls. And from what Mem told me, it was the first thing I did with him. Jump in mud puddles.” “Oh.” Puddles stopped swinging, and Abs head cocked sideways as she considered his dangling form. A deep breath filled her and then released with what seemed to be disappointment and my heart dropped. I never imagined she wouldn’t love him the way I did. “What’s wrong? You don’t like him?” “I do. He looks kind. I just…” “What, love? Just tell me.” “I wish it were raining. Den we could splash in mud puddles.” She then stood up and embraced Puddles as I had so many times and decided. “Come Puddles, maybe you can help me eat my cake!”