reason at all.
James? How horrible. Who's James?
I pull the chain out of the clutter and see a small heart-shaped pendant hanging from it. Engraved in the middle of the heart are the initials K. W. I close my hand around the necklace and hold it tight.
Who are you? I remember her eyes. And why are you afraid?
I drop all of the items back into the jar, screw the lid on, and put it back just where I found it. I make sure all the pinecones are in place. And then I leave.
I find Van dozing in a patch of sunlight.
"Come on, boy. Let's go home."
He wags his tail and follows me to the Jeep.
As I drive home, my mind wanders back to Annie. I tell myself that thinking about her now is ridiculous. Yesterday was my day for memories. Yet, she feels closer than she has in years. Perhaps it was the clarity of the nightmare last night, seeing her small body nestled in the casket, or maybe the events of yesterday and today, seeing this unknown child, has taken me back.
I try to put the thoughts out of my mind. I flip on the radio set to a Bay Area news station and try to concentrate on a debate between two members of congress. Their arguing annoys rather than distracts.
I turn the radio off and think about the week ahead and realize I have little scheduled. I have one appointment with clients, but I left the rest of the week open so I can work. I have two commissioned pieces to complete for a couple from Sausalito. They saw my work in one of the galleries in Carmel and wanted something more specific to the decor of their waterfront home. I don't enjoy working to someone else's specifications, but it pays the mortgage.
I think again about the piece I began last night. While I know it's the tree from my nightmare, I also know it's the tree in the clearing. They are not the same exactly, but my subconscious, in the depths of slumber, has somehow linked the two. One represents death. One represents survival. The two seem intrinsically entwined. Why?
Again, the haunted eyes of the child I saw yesterday come to mind. What has she survived that her young eyes reflect fear rather than the playful innocence one might expect to see from a child hiding in a tree? And why am I compelled to find out? Isn't it possible that I just startled her yesterday? But my instinct tells me there's something more.
Instinct? Intuition? These are senses I haven't considered in years—senses I've tried to shut down, I suppose. Because where they lead, I usually don't want to go. They are senses that require a knowledge and trust of oneself. I must trust myself in order to trust my instinct. And I don't trust myself. That's the crux of it.
I reach for the radio knob again and twist it on. I punch buttons until I hear a familiar beat. I turn up the volume until the pulsating music fills the Jeep . . . and my mind.
It was in the months following Annie's death that I began to realize what I'd lost. The magnitude of the loss crashed against me, drowning me in shame and sorrow.
A few weeks before her birth, I was finally coming out of my stupor. I began eating without having Mom or Ruby force-feed me, I showered daily of my own accord, a relief to them I'm sure. Most significant to me was that I began noticing the baby growing within me. I felt the nudges and kicks inside my womb and began to feel a sense of awe at what was transpiring inside my body. I put thoughts of how this child was conceived aside, and I claimed one of my mother's favorite promises: "God causes all things to work together for good . . ."
Mother had spent hours at my side the last two months talking and quoting Scripture. Even when she thought I was asleep or not listening, she talked. Mostly she imparted God's grace as she understood it and lived it. She assured me over and over that God had already forgiven me, loved me, and loved this baby. She reminded me that nothing could separate me from the love of God. She insisted that He had a plan for my life.
Some of that sank in—or at
James? How horrible. Who's James?
I pull the chain out of the clutter and see a small heart-shaped pendant hanging from it. Engraved in the middle of the heart are the initials K. W. I close my hand around the necklace and hold it tight.
Who are you? I remember her eyes. And why are you afraid?
I drop all of the items back into the jar, screw the lid on, and put it back just where I found it. I make sure all the pinecones are in place. And then I leave.
I find Van dozing in a patch of sunlight.
"Come on, boy. Let's go home."
He wags his tail and follows me to the Jeep.
As I drive home, my mind wanders back to Annie. I tell myself that thinking about her now is ridiculous. Yesterday was my day for memories. Yet, she feels closer than she has in years. Perhaps it was the clarity of the nightmare last night, seeing her small body nestled in the casket, or maybe the events of yesterday and today, seeing this unknown child, has taken me back.
I try to put the thoughts out of my mind. I flip on the radio set to a Bay Area news station and try to concentrate on a debate between two members of congress. Their arguing annoys rather than distracts.
I turn the radio off and think about the week ahead and realize I have little scheduled. I have one appointment with clients, but I left the rest of the week open so I can work. I have two commissioned pieces to complete for a couple from Sausalito. They saw my work in one of the galleries in Carmel and wanted something more specific to the decor of their waterfront home. I don't enjoy working to someone else's specifications, but it pays the mortgage.
I think again about the piece I began last night. While I know it's the tree from my nightmare, I also know it's the tree in the clearing. They are not the same exactly, but my subconscious, in the depths of slumber, has somehow linked the two. One represents death. One represents survival. The two seem intrinsically entwined. Why?
Again, the haunted eyes of the child I saw yesterday come to mind. What has she survived that her young eyes reflect fear rather than the playful innocence one might expect to see from a child hiding in a tree? And why am I compelled to find out? Isn't it possible that I just startled her yesterday? But my instinct tells me there's something more.
Instinct? Intuition? These are senses I haven't considered in years—senses I've tried to shut down, I suppose. Because where they lead, I usually don't want to go. They are senses that require a knowledge and trust of oneself. I must trust myself in order to trust my instinct. And I don't trust myself. That's the crux of it.
I reach for the radio knob again and twist it on. I punch buttons until I hear a familiar beat. I turn up the volume until the pulsating music fills the Jeep . . . and my mind.
It was in the months following Annie's death that I began to realize what I'd lost. The magnitude of the loss crashed against me, drowning me in shame and sorrow.
A few weeks before her birth, I was finally coming out of my stupor. I began eating without having Mom or Ruby force-feed me, I showered daily of my own accord, a relief to them I'm sure. Most significant to me was that I began noticing the baby growing within me. I felt the nudges and kicks inside my womb and began to feel a sense of awe at what was transpiring inside my body. I put thoughts of how this child was conceived aside, and I claimed one of my mother's favorite promises: "God causes all things to work together for good . . ."
Mother had spent hours at my side the last two months talking and quoting Scripture. Even when she thought I was asleep or not listening, she talked. Mostly she imparted God's grace as she understood it and lived it. She assured me over and over that God had already forgiven me, loved me, and loved this baby. She reminded me that nothing could separate me from the love of God. She insisted that He had a plan for my life.
Some of that sank in—or at
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