Fiction

Thanksgiving at Mom’s

Short Stories

Thanksgiving Dinner Table Everything had to be perfect. The house had to be spotless, with no clutter. “Everything in its place and a place for everything,” her mother told her countless times as she was growing up.

The dinner had to be cooked just as her mother herself had cooked the same meal so many times: The stuffing a perfect blend of spices and, like the turkey, neither too dry nor too moist. The occasion called for the traditional dishes, including candied yams, mashed potatoes and gravy, and the special baked corn dish that her mother prepared every year without fail. The family recipe, detailed on a stained and crinkled index card, was there in the recipe box. She immediately recognized her mother’s handwriting, although she was struck by how strong and sure the letters looked. For several moments, she held the card, stroking the ink marks left upon it so many years ago. She felt tears welling up in her eyes and realized she had better get busy if she were going to have everything ready on time.

The hours seemed to fly by as she carefully prepared each dish. When she finally had everything in the oven or simmering on the stove, she sat down to rest for a few moments and found herself staring at the glass-fronted cabinet. Behind those panes of clear glass, her mother’s China, glassware, and serving dishes neatly lined the shelves in precisely the spots where her mother had replaced them after the last time she herself had prepared a meal in this very kitchen in this very house.

The Dream

Short Stories

Roller Coaster Tracks I awoke with a start. I was disoriented, confused . . . it took me a moment to realize where I was. In fact, I was right at home in my own warm, comfortable bed.

So why had I awakened so forcefully and with such a jolt?

I got up and stumbled about the house for a few moments, wandering aimlessly from room to room in my still-sleepy stupor. I held a glass under the water dispenser on the front of the refrigerator, letting the icy cold splash over my fingers and drag me further from my hazy state. Then, as the chilled water trickled down my throat and I felt every molecule coursing toward my empty stomach, the pain in my chest allowed the details to slowly begin permeating my consciousness.

I slumped down on one of the couches in the family room, joined by all of my beloved four-footed children who expressed their love and concern for me with their purring, licking, nuzzling, and snuggling.

And as I sat there rubbing their ears and bellies, I remembered fully the details of the dream that had disturbed my peaceful slumbering.

I was on a roller coaster with my beloved. We were laughing, talking, our hair was flying. We were in the front row of the car, speeding along the tracks. I can’t remember whether there were any other people on the ride with us, but I do recall that the air was warm and the sky was a perfectly beautiful blue with a few light clouds. I remember thinking about the sky as the car was climbing up, up, up the track, slowly chugging toward the top.

I carry . . .

Short Stories

Pen and heart I carry him with me everywhere, every day.

He has been with me all these years . . . ever-present, never present.

In my thoughts. In my dreams. In my daydreams. In my hopes, my goals, my triumphs, my failures, my achievements, my near-misses.

In my eyes, in the air that I breathe.

I carry his name on the tip of my tongue, but never dare speak it.

I carry him, the essence of him, the belief in him, the memories of him, the thoughts of him, the smell of him, the longing for him . . . I carry the burden of having let him go, having lost him.

I carry the hope of bumping into him unexpectedly, practicing what I will say, how I will smile. I carry myself with anticipation, walking nonchalantly yet resolutely and confidently . . . just in case.

I carry a heart full to overflowing with love . . . of him, for him, concealed for him, waiting for him . . .

Inspired by the Sunday Scribblings prompt: “I carry”