Healing through story

Tag: grief

shortfiction24 – state property

Credit: John DeVore

What I’m Writing This Week

Kate Skelton waits till Spring to scatter her husband’s ashes at his favorite park pond. A park ranger faces off against the feisty Kate.

This story started as a man spotting a blue-beaked duck on a pond. It didn’t work. He morphed into she, and the duck went away, maybe for another story.

Please enjoy.

State Property

Bob Gillen

Kate Skelton looked east into a morning Spring sun that warmed her face, made it feel hotter than the air temperature. She ran a finger along the wooden bench sitting six feet back from the edge of Oak Pond. The smell of new grass and budding shrubs tickled her nose. This had been Harry’s favorite outdoor place. For two years after he had retired, he came here three or four times a week, to this secluded spot near the state’s largest reservoir. Came here because no one else did. Came here to forget. Forget the years he put in as homicide detective. Forget the evil that man inflicted on man. 

Kate set her tote bag in the grass next to the faded bench. Okay, Harry. This is it. She pulled out a can of paint, a brush, a couple of rags, and a small screwdriver to pry off the can lid. She left a pewter urn in the tote. With one rag she dusted off the surface of the bench. Fifteen minutes later she was midway through painting the bench a deep hunter green when she heard a scuffling in the brush behind her. She turned to see a state park ranger staring at her.

“Mind if I ask what you’re doing?” the ranger said.

Kate pointed to the bench with her brush. “Painting.”

“That’s state property.”

“So are you,” she replied.

“Ah, I see we have a wiseass here.”

Kate looked around. “I don’t see one.”

The ranger shook his head. 

“Why are you doing this?”

“The bench needed fresh paint.”

The ranger blew out his breath. “Why here?”

“Oh. That’s easy. This was my husband’s favorite spot — she waved her arm around — in the entire park. This bench and this forgotten little pond in the corner of the park.”

“And where is your husband now?”

Kate hesitated. Pointed out over the pond. “Out there.”

The ranger peered over Kate’s shoulder. He shook his head.

Kate set the paint brush across the top of the can. “My husband is dead. His ashes are out on the pond.”

The ranger nodded. “His ashes are in the pond.”

Kate smiled.

“That’s illegal, spreading human remains on public property.”

She held her hands out. “I didn’t know that.”

“Did you do it?”

Kate shrugged. “Maybe.”

The ranger reached for a notepad and pen. “Do you have ID?”

“Yes.”

He blew out another breath. “May I see it?”

“It’s in my bag…in my car…in the parking lot.”

“Name?”

“Kate Skelton.”

The ranger wrote on his pad. 

“Address?”

Kate smiled. “Are you writing a ticket?”

The ranger nodded.

“Wow.”

“What?”

“You left your heart at home today.”

The ranger bit his lower lip.

Kate pointed at the ranger’s chest. “Your heart. It’s not there. You must have left it home.”

“Address!”

“I wonder where you put it. Left it on the bathroom sink. Or on the kitchen table…No, no. I got it. You tucked your heart away in your sock drawer. Where you keep all your personal stuff.”

The ranger flipped his notebook closed. “Lady, I can see I’m wasting my time with you. I’ll get a photo of your plate number off your car. What do you drive?” He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. A Toyota Prius.”

Kate snickered.

Not even close.

“Yeah, that’s it, lady. A Prius, the model that comes without a gas pedal.”

Kate laughed, shook her head. “Not even close.”

She pointed to the can of paint. “Do I finish painting the bench? Or leave the can for a state employee to finish the job?”

The ranger said nothing.

“I could leave it half painted. It will become a state park legend. A curiosity. Who is the mysterious artist who painted half a bench? I can see the headline: What is the meaning behind the half-painted bench?”

The ranger’s Sat phone squawked. He listened, grunted.

“I gotta go. Finish the job, and don’t let me ever see you here again.”

“Yes, sir,” Kate said as she saluted the ranger. “Mission will be completed.”

The ranger spit to the side, turned and left.

Kate waited to be sure he was gone. She grabbed the brush and finished painting the bench. The can, the brush, the rags went into a plastic trash bag.

She took the  pewter-colored metal urn out of the tote bag. Unscrewed the lid.

“Okay, Harry,” she whispered. “Now it’s time.” She stepped to the edge of the pond, took a final look around, scattered Harry’s ashes over the pond. She rinsed out the urn, filled it with water, and threw it out to the middle of the pond.

“Bye, Harry.” 

All her memories welled up, turned to tears, dripped down into the pond.

Kate sobbed. Shook head to toe.

She backed away from the pond, sat down on the bench.

“Shit!”

***

shortfiction24 – a new morning

Edward Hopper, Morning Sun, Columbus Museum of Art

In today’s micro story Diane Somers feels relief after returning her berserk cat Zero to the animal shelter. Relief…and emptiness.

More short fiction in the Jack and Diane series. Enjoy.

What I’m Writing Today

Today I’m exploring a lonely moment as Diane sits at home after returning her cat to the shelter. This is #4 in the Jack and Diane series of stories. As I have said before, I did not expect to continue the story line, and I have no plan as to where it is going. The characters interest me. I’ll see where it goes as we proceed.

Catch up on previous stories with Jack and Diane on this blog: A Third Date, The Second Date, Death by Millstone.

A New Morning

Bob Gillen

Diane Somers woke at 7:30 without an alarm. She stretched, slid out from under her covers. The east-facing window filled the room with light. 

Diane smiled. I slept through the night, she told herself. First time in a month. She stepped into her fuzzy slippers, pulled on a well-worn blue chennile robe, and padded to the kitchen. In under ten minutes she had her French-press coffee in hand. She settled in her chair and gazed out at the trees moving in the brisk Santa Ana winds. 

She sighed as she sipped her coffee. 

Sleep was good. After a month of near-sleepless nights she had finally surrendered and returned her cat Zero to the rescue shelter. As a retiree, she had the option of afternoon naps. But nothing replaced a good night’s sleep. Zero had been with her for close to two years. In that time the cat had never once purred or meowed. Never snuggled with Diane in her chair or in bed. The cat did nothing but eat, pee and sleep. Hence the cat’s name. Diane gave zero fucks about him.

But Zero had taken to roaming the house every night for the last month. Running from room to room. Hissing. Knocking books off tables. The last straw, two nights ago he swept her favorite mug off the kitchen table and shattered it. 

The guy at the shelter had accepted Zero back. “Didn’t work for you, huh?” he asked.

“Not your normal cuddly cat.”

The clerk had nodded. “Thanks for trying. Not always a match.”

“Thanks for understanding,” Diane had called out as she left.

She sipped her coffee. A couple of dry leaves scratched across the concrete patio in the wind. For some weird reason, the moving leaves reminded her of the black and white movie with Peter Lorre, where a severed hand crawled around the house causing mayhem and murder. That’s what Zero had been, a hand detached from anything that would give it life, creeping about in the darkness. Diane shuddered. He’s gone now.

After a second cup of coffee, she continued to stare out the window at the wind-blown trees. All the movement was outside. Inside, only stillness. Diane felt alone, empty. Her mind drifted back over the three years since her second husband had died. She lost him quite suddenly of a massive heart attack. And she had lost her only daughter in a maelstrom of anger and bitterness. Margaret had not spoken to Diane since Mark’s death. Diane had still to reason why, exactly. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by sirens from the nearby fire station, as a crew went out on call. Her neighbor’s German shepherd howled. Howled mightily. It always brought a smile to her face. The dog was normally rather stoic, but the sirens gave him voice every time.

The feeling of emptiness fell over her again. She was utterly alone in the house once again. No husband, no connection to her daughter, no cat. Only her.

She returned to the kitchen for more coffee. Zero’s food and water dishes were still on the floor under the counter. She picked them up and tossed them in the trash. That was the last trace of him. Gone.

Diane settled in the chair with a third cup of coffee. She opened her iPad to read emails. On top was the monthly newsletter from one of her favorite mystery authors. As she read the newsletter, she teared up. The author talked about losing her spouse in the previous year. She spoke of herself recovering from a mild bout of Omicron, spoke of the almost two years of pandemic lockdown and restrictions. The author described her current life as a scaled-back life. A scaled-back life, yet nurtured by gratitude and appreciation for what she does have.

A scaled-back life

Diane thought, that’s it exactly. That’s my life. Scaled back. Not the same. Maybe never to be the same again. But clearly scaled back. Full of limitations and restrictions. Filled with absence and emptiness. Tears flowed.

Her phone chirped. She glanced at the screen. Jack. The guy she met on an online dating app for the over-fifty crowd. She let the call go to voicemail. Later, dude. I need some me time right now.

She wiped away her tears, smiled, recalling the day she and Jack had spent in Santa Barbara a few days ago. Appreciation. Gratitude.

Outside a single dry leaf continued to scratch across the patio in the wind. Diane got up, opened the slider, and stepped on the leaf. Crushed it to small pieces. She closed the slider, settled back in her chair.

She reached for the phone. Took a deep breath, hit Jack’s number. 

***

Mannequin Monday – This can’t be fixed.

Our mannequin carries a heavy burden this week, clothed in grief, little consolation from words of wisdom. Only a couple of sentences to light the way: “Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried.”

What I’m Writing This Week

I offer you another story bite, “The Talk of People in the Sea.” This one is inspired by two sources. One, a quote posted by my friend Caroline Farrell. The quote comes from Tim Lawrence, from his blog The Adversity Within. The quote: “Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried.”

The second inspiration is the book I’m currently reading, Henry Beston’s The Outermost House. All about his year-long stay in a beach shack on Cape Cod. I hope you enjoy my story.

The Talk of People in the Sea

Bob Gillen

A friend let Dylan borrow his beach shack. Isolated. Miles of sand in either direction. Dunes that changed shape almost daily. Grasses moving with the wind. A surf that was never silent. Long past Labor Day, when all the tourists have gone home. When only the stoic year-rounders hung on. Most had a purpose. Fishing, boat repair, construction, retail. And him. With no purpose. Just here.

Dylan had lost his love. Gone, passed on. Died, his word of choice. Now he lived in a cloud of grief. Not so much grieving, as a verb. Grief, the noun. Not a fluid kind of thing. No, this held a man in its grip. Tangled him in roots. Held him like quicksand. Held him but did not pull him under. Too easy that way. Kept him half buried. Hard to breath. Vision limited to the muck in front of him.

Tonight was Dylan’s third at the beach shack. The night air brought shivers, the fireplace down to embers at one a.m. The inside of the shack felt like the inside of an urn, holding the ashes of his memories. He crawled out of his sleeping bag, warmed leftover coffee in the microwave, sat out on the tiny porch, wrapped in a faded blanket.

Above him, stars. A cliché to say “countless stars,” he thought. Looking at them on this moonless night he wondered, the stars are perhaps the only changeless thing in this universe. Changeless, from his perspective. Of course, a scientist would say that the universe was in constant flux. But he could not see that from his spot on this beach, on this night, his time of emptiness.

He set his cup down on the porch floor, rose, pulled the blanket over his shoulders, walked to the beach. At the water’s edge he stood, listening, seeing only the white slashes of the crashing waves. With his bare feet he probed for a dry spot to sit down. He cocooned himself in the blanket, closed his eyes, marveled at the unique sound of each wave.

Credit: Mary Spears

He sat for an hour, listening, hoping the crashing waves would wash away his grief. Purge it from his soul.

Dylan caught a new sound coming through the surf’s roar. A whisper, a voice. He opened his eyes. There was no one. Of course, there was no one. Not here. Not at this hour. Again, the whisper. He strained his eyes to see out beyond the surf. For a boat passing off shore. For fishermen calling out.

Too dark without a moon to see beyond the surf. There were no silhouettes on the horizon. No shape that could be a ship.

Another whisper. In between the crashes of the surf. Two words. He strained to make them out. A woman’s voice? Soft, calm, at peace. Two words. You…? Carry…? 

He shuddered in the night’s deep chill. Tossed the blanket aside and stood. What was this voice? He kept his eyes open, looking for a source. There was nothing to see.

Again, you…carry. This time a male voice. Deep, booming under the roiling surf. 

More words spilled into the air. Several voices together. Tumbling. Can’t fix…only…

He dug the heels of his hands deep into his eyes. Rubbed hard. Stared at the surf. Looked up into the infinite spray of stars above him. He searched for a constellation. Found none. He was never good at spotting them anyway.

With no warning, no hint, grief welled up as from the bottom of his soul. Tears poured down his face. Disappeared into the sand at his feet.

And the voices rolled out of the surf. Softly, over the roar. Deeply, under the roar. The words clear now.

This can’t be fixed, my love. You can only carry it.

***

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