A Core Memory Dream: An excerpt from my work in progress, untitled novel

 Looking through tree branches, the view from where she is perched is breathtaking. Flowering trees like the one she’s sitting atop stretch for what seems like miles. A bumble bee rests on her knee and gives a wink, “Hello there,” the bee buzzes, then lifts off to greet another apple blossom.

A hum of laughter draws her attention to the lake just beyond the orchard. There she sees a circle of people sitting on giant logs. There’s a fire spitting sparks as they poke at it with sticks.

“I’d like to join them,” she thinks, as she finds her footing to make her descent.

 In an instant, she’s behind the circle of friends, “Hey guys. Can I join you?” All of them turning their attention to her in unison exclaim, “Amber! Hi! You made it!”

She’s dumbfounded, “Who are these people? How do they know me?”

Taking a seat on the log, she searches their faces trying to remember their names but none of them seem familiar. “They’re all my age, but why don’t I know them? And how do they know me?”

“Amber, you want to roast a marshmallow?” One girl offers her stick with remnants of the last gooey marshmallow that met its fate over the campfire.

Amber watches the marshmallow slowly expand over the heat of the flames before it transforms from snow white to golden brown. She pulls the stick back, having tortured the marshmallow enough, and releases it from its death bed. Popping the toasted pillow into her mouth, soft, sticky sweetness consumes her. It’s so real she thinks, “There’s no way this is a dream.”

An eruption of laughter pulls her back to the moment. Two boys are taking their bows on the imaginary stage in front of the fire. The girls are clapping wildly and shaking off the remaining laughter in their bellies as one boy asks, “Who’s next?” 

Amber thinks, “Next for what?”

Win or Lose

I come from a generation of people who were taught that winning meant getting the job done right and being the best at whatever you were doing. Winning first place was the ultimate goal- second place was okay and third place? Eh, whatever. As a parent of Gen Z kids, I watched them during their grade school years earn medals and certificates just for showing up! At first, I was a little annoyed (don't worry, I didn't let on to the kids I was annoyed- I was a proud mama through and through,) but I'd be lying if I didn't admit, I wish I had gotten medals growing up just for being me and showing up. I was recently reading through my journal from 1997-1998 for a writing project I'm working on, and the theme throughout was, "I'm not good enough. No-one recognizes the good things I do, but they sure as hell jump at the opportunity to acknowledge my mistakes." Now, as a fourteen/fifteen-year-old sullen teenager was I being dramatic? Most likely. Ok, definitely. But at that moment, that was my reality. It's what I felt and believed enough to write in my journal, so...

In the present, I'm learning to rewire the win-or-you-are-a-loser mentality. I'm learning to give myself- and others- more grace and compassion. I'm constantly having to remind myself that doing my best, whatever my best is in that moment or for that day, is an absolute win. I'm learning that recognition from others is not the motive for being successful or winning at life. Being kind and generous is winning. Trying something new is winning. Showing up- especially when you don't feel like it- is winning. Giving our best effort- even if we don't measure up to someone else's best (or our own best)- is still winning. Accept the challenge to do and be your best and you'll always be a winner. Keep trying, keep showing up, keep winning and don't worry if you think no one is taking note. Believe me, they are. And if they're not, remember- it's not about them- do it anyway.

Gloria: A Short Story

   

Approaching the back hatch, dimly lit by the exit sign, Roger stops to adjust his helmet. “Am I really doing this?” A vision of Gloria comes to him. Her auburn hair blowing in the wind, each strand stroking the blue sky like the bristles of an artist’s paintbrush on the canvas. She had an energy no earthly force could stomp out. Even death, its impenetrable walls, could not contain her. She was everywhere. The leaky faucet in the bathroom, dripping incessantly, mimicked the tune she hummed while she worked at her computer. The park where he took his evening run was a forest of trees bearing emerald leaves the color of her eyes.  The coffee brewing in the kitchen, its earthy aroma mingling with notes of lavender, Gloria’s favorite flower, brings her back to him every day. No matter that her time of death was recorded with several witnesses to bear truth to the fact, they could not keep her from sitting at the kitchen table gazing at him over the steam of her morning cup of joe. It's why he had to leave. He could not bear her ghost anymore.

“I’m doing this.” Roger steps off the platform and makes his way down the hatch ladder, his eyes holding fast to the exit. As he descends the ladder, he feels himself moving faster, his body growing lighter, his heart pounding heavier. “There’s no way I can change my mind now,” he reassures himself as he feels Gloria’s hand on his back, pushing him to keep going.

He reaches the exit, places his hand on the handle, pausing briefly only to take one last breath of manufactured oxygen. He exhales and opens the door all in one motion. The light, shockingly bright, immediately forces him to shield his eyes. After a moment of adjustment, he opens his eyes anxiously. He yanks at his helmet’s strap, freeing his head from its constraints.

            One breath in. One breath out. The oxygen is real. He can feel it course through his blood. Butterflies flutter throughout his whole body, bouncing off the walls of his insides, knocking him to the ground. Earth. Quickly removing his gloves as if they are burning his hands, he digs his fingers into the sand grasping at each grain. The prickle and pinch of every granule intensifies as he digs deeper wanting nothing more than to bury himself in it.

            He catches his reflection in the helmet he abandoned moments before. He despised that helmet; the way it limited his vision and kept him from seeing everything around him. Instinctively, he looks around 360 degrees several times before looking back at his hands filled with the sand. “Water. Need water,” his dry throat urging him to move quickly, he gets to his feet clumsily. “Stupid boots,” he says to himself as he kicks the giant, ridiculous marshmallows from his feet. The sand tickles his toes sending shockwaves of electricity up his spine. “It’s good to be home.”

            He walks for a bit, if you can call it walking.  Picturing himself, he must look like a toddler learning for the first time how gravity works. With each step it feels as though he’s crossing a path of slippery stones, the earth beneath him rolling like the hot dog cookers at the ballpark. But after the first fifty yards he feels steadier, gravity no longer playing tricks on him.

            He turns, only once, to look at what he leaves behind. The vessel, cocked oddly at a thirty-degree angle, its invincible steel shell dented and cracked from its bumpy arrival back to earth. The vessel had promised an escape from “All your earthly woes,” Roger recalled regretfully. It held him prisoner far too long but at last, he was free. “What was I thinking?” he shook his head sadly, remembering the lengths he had gone to so he could escape her ghost. “Gloria. My sweet Gloria. I’m so sorry. I could not live without you, but living with your ghost was more than I could bear.”

            Down just a bit further, Roger spots the river with cool rushing water. He stumbles down the hill, his parched mouth begging for a drink urging him to go faster- faster! He collapses at the river’s edge and crawls awkwardly into the water. Gulping water and splashing his face, its icy refreshment piercing him like daggers, he takes one last deep breath before submerging himself.

            There he remains, surrounded by a liquid blanket, until he can feel his heartbeat slow. Just under the surface, the water muffles all his senses except for one. Touch. The softness of the water reminds him of Gloria’s hand caressing his cheek. An odd warmth fills his body despite the icy waters. But there’s no mistake, he can feel her hand upon his face. He doesn’t dare open his eyes for fear that it will mean trading his sense of touch for his sense of sight. He knows it is her hand that rests upon his face. He remembers exactly how her skin felt, how small her hand was, how her heartbeat seemed to pulse through her fingers and vibrate within him when she touched him. He longed to stay in this moment forever, but his lungs began to burn. Dizziness enveloped him and he had no choice but to make his way back to the surface for air.          

Breaking through the surface, his lungs were satisfied to breathe, but his heart cursed his lungs for it. “I wanted to stay. I wanted you to stay, Gloria,” tears filling his eyes, blurring his sight. “I could not breathe, and my heart burned with the fire of hell. The more I breathed, the more the oxygen fueled the fire within my heart. I had to leave, Gloria!  I had to find a way to breathe and not feel as though my heart would erupt. I’m so sorry, Gloria.”

            Roger forced his way to the shore, his tears mixing with the river’s water on his face. Pulling himself to dry land, he rubbed his eyes and shook the water from his hair. Unsure what to do next, he sat motionless in the sand still recovering from depriving himself of oxygen. With every breath he drew he braced himself for his heart’s hellfire to ignite again.

 In. Out. In. Out.

 But there was nothing. Not even a spark seemed to light. He breathed in deeper, exhaled heavier, waiting for the pain.

            In. Out. In. Out.

            Then finally, he felt it- the pain he remembered from before. As it intensified slowly, he could feel it rumbling within him like thunder chasing a dark rain cloud. But confusion took over when he realized the pain wasn’t how he remembered it. At that moment a strange memory began to play out in his mind. A snow-globe perched on the top shelf of his mother’s China hutch with a disfigured black creature inside. He rubbed his temples trying to remember what it was. “A winged animal of some kind- ah yes, a raven,” he finally concludes. As a child he hated that snow-globe. No matter where he stood in the dining room or where he sat to eat his meals, that damn raven would find him and stare menacingly at him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he recalled the ominous raven.

He remembered his mother finding him at the dining table one day looking at the raven snow-globe, his vexing expression giving it away how much it troubled him.  Pulling the globe off the hutch and sitting beside him with the snow-globe she shook it and said, “See, darling?” his mother’s gentle voice cooed, as tiny black birds appeared, swirling around the raven. The sunlight shining through the window caught the wings of each floating bird creating a sparkling effect making the dreadful raven look a bit less ominous- somewhat beautiful, albeit in a strange way. “Sometimes we just need to let in the light and trust that the darkness isn’t as bad as we think.”

The throbbing ache in his heart jerked him back to the present where he was still trying to make sense of this new pain. Its usual razor-like edges seemed strangely dull. He imagined the pain, encapsulated like the raven inside his mother’s snow-globe. The grief and pain of losing Gloria- like the grim raven cemented inside the globe, was not going anywhere. Escaping was not the answer. He knew that now. The memory of her laugh, the smell of her perfume, the warmth of her hand on his cheek- like the tiny black birds surrounding the raven- were there to soften the pain, to dull its edges, if only he’d let the light in.

Sunlight bursting through the clouds encouraged him to stand. He felt Gloria take his hand as he stepped away from the river and left the broken vessel behind him. The light followed him as he made his trek home. He no longer wanted to escape Gloria’s ghost. No, he wanted nothing more than to feel her, see her, smell her- real or imagined- it made no difference now. The air he breathed was the oxygen needed to fuel his heart’s burning fire but without it, Gloria wouldn’t be real. The fire he felt within him was Gloria. The pain he felt was her love- love he could not live without. Gloria. She would be with him forever right alongside the pain. Without the pain there would be no Gloria. Without Gloria, there would be no pain. He had to accept them both.

Finally, they reached the park with its trees of emerald leaves. Roger looked down the path and saw home straight ahead. Gloria, releasing his hand, skipped joyfully ahead of him. Looking over her shoulder she called to him, “Well are you coming, or you just gonna stand there like a space monkey?” She teased and turned again to face home.

 “Space monkey,” he laughed to himself.

He caught up to Gloria after a quick jog and wrapped his arm around her waist as a flock of tiny black birds descended from the trees. Whirling through the air, they darted between the two of them, forcing him to release her. Roger watched as they dispersed just as quickly as they had come. Only a second had passed before he returned his attention to Gloria, but she was nowhere to be found. He frantically searched in all directions. Still, no Gloria. The birds made a swift return, swirling around him once more before flying off into the trees again. This time as they departed, they transformed themselves miraculously right before his eyes. Above him, an image of Gloria sketched in the sky. He blinked back tears and looked again to be sure. Yes, there in the sky, he could see the tiny black birds- the sun sparkling off their glistening wings- reminding him, “Let the light in, Roger.”

            “No more escaping, Gloria. I promise. You and me, air and fire, pain and love, all of it, always.”

Diapers to Diplomas to Dreams

www.jessrocknovak.com lyrics used with
 permission from Jess Novak

The time between diapers and diplomas, were indeed thousands of lives lived. Some of those lives were short and sweet, others seemed to never end (need I list the examples? You know them all—the three-year-old terrors, thirteen-year-olds with raging hormones and tyrannical teen drivers ready to take on the road… my least favorite life.)

 I often think about how different life was for me as a mother of babies and toddlers compared to how it is now— a middle-aged woman standing on the sidelines of my young adult children’s lives, realizing there’s a whole other game on the playing field next to theirs. The coach over there is waving at me, “Come play! There’s a spot on the team for you!” 

                                                                               

I shrug and say, “Heck yeah! It’s my turn!”

I’ll be playing my own game but will always be watching the kids play their game on the field to the left. 

From diapers to diplomas to dreams- both theirs and mine.

Whoever said we only have one life to live… immediately no. We have as many lives as we choose to live and I’m ready to start living my next one.

Going Through the Motions

  

When I started working at a manufacturing company in 2010, I had ZERO prior experience with ANYTHING mechanical. I didn’t know the names of any tools or wrenches, I had never worn or owned a pair of steel-toe boots, and aside from the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream factory, I’d never been inside a manufacturing plant.

While training for an entry level position of machine operator, I was able to watch the veteran technician work. Every little movement, every tool he picked up, every screw or bolt he loosened or tightened- I was watching, like a cat ready to pounce on its prey! I absorbed every detail I could.

After months of watching and absorbing as much as I could, I found myself able to mimic his movements- I was able to go through the motions and with practice, I became skilled at the process. Within the first year of my employment, I became a successful technician. earning the independence to run the department on my own.

Going through the motions is a tactic that has served me well. I truly believe it can be applied to any new skill you want to learn. Victoria Erickson captures my thoughts and feelings beautifully. 

If there's something you want to be- become it. Don't let imposter syndrome slow you down or prevent you from learning something new. Don't be afraid to act the part- whatever that may look like for you. You are capable of being anything, believe me! If I can become a manufacturing technician- turning wrenches, greasing bearings, and programming mechanical machines- trust me- you can do and be whatever you set your mind to. See what happens when you try it out! Just go through the motions until the motions become skill. It can happen!

The Trouble with Photo Memories

We all have at least one device that stores our photos and likes to suggest we view a slideshow set to music or a pop-up gallery of “snowy day” memories.

For me, they’re everywhere. My iPhone, echo show, and even my smart tv likes to flash these memories on the screen every chance it gets. At first glance I thought it was a lovely idea to set our tv’s screensaver to the “Show Daily Memories” setting, but it turns out- it’s not always lovely.

Not every photo memory comes with a swooning, “Oh, I remember that day- such a lovely day.” Some days there are memories that are just too painful. I have been learning that if I’m not in the right mindset, those photo memories can send me down a path of regret and sadness- not memory lane.

A few weeks ago, our tv went to screensaver mode and presented its first photo memory- our rottweiler, Hazel, fills the screen. My whole mood suddenly jerks from “doing ok” to “sad” as grim memories take over. Memories of the days she was so sick she could barely walk and the moment she looked into my husband’s eyes before the veterinarian tech filled her veins with the cocktail of euthanasia drugs begin a hostile takeover. It’s nearly bedtime and now I find myself spiraling into thoughts of death- the biggest culprit for my nighttime anxiety. Great.

After a hard and frustrating day that I’ve battled ghosts from my past, the echo show pulls up a picture of my daughter with her ex-best friend. I was already struggling with regret and beating myself up for not doing better as a mom and now that photo glared at me as I stood at the kitchen sink- “Where did it go so wrong? Was there something I could have done?”

Reminiscing and flipping through photo albums can be a good practice from time to time, but only when we are somewhat prepared to be reminded of difficult times. For me, the worst thing is being caught off guard. My mind is already erratically darting from one thought to the next on its own without photo memories barging in.

I have updated the screensaver settings on the tv to show beautiful landscape photos from around the world. Instead of dwelling on the past, I look at the screen and think, “What a beautiful place. I’d love to go there someday.” Dreaming of the future sure beats dwelling on the past, that’s for sure.

As far as my phone and the echo show… don’t worry, I’m not about to go on a Delete Photos Frenzy! It doesn’t do anyone any good to erase memories of challenging or sad times—we need those reminders to keep us moving forward and to stay grounded. Instead, I’m going to work on giving myself compassion and grace. Rather than magnifying the heartbreak and disappointment, I’m going to work on focusing on the lessons I learned and the growth that came because of my mistakes. Learn. Grow. Move on. Repeat.

Birthday Traditions

Today is my Half-Birthday!

It’s also my husband’s Actual Birthday!

It’s a fun coincidence we’ve always enjoyed since we first met eleven years ago.

He’s not one to make a fuss over his birthday. “It’s just another day,” he says every time I try to bring up making special plans to celebrate. I’m not very consistent when it comes to birthday celebrations- some years I go all out and have amazing inspiration for a unique trip or activity (like last year I took him to a black light splatter paint room) but other years I keep it simple with small gifts, dinner reservations and, of course, a birthday cake.

Birthday cakes growing up for me were a big deal. My mother made the most amazing cakes. Amazing, as in, character molds and intricate decorations. I don’t remember many birthday gifts from over the years but boy oh boy do I remember the cakes! (Ok, confession: I don’t remember the panda cake, I just happen to have an amazing photograph of it- it was my first birthday, after all.)

I feel a little sting of guilt that I didn’t carry on the tradition of amazing cakes for my kids’ birthdays over the last twenty years. Not to say there haven’t been some great looking store-bought cakes placed in front of my kids over the years, or that I don’t do something to make their day super special, but still. I try to remind myself that sometimes less is more. Sometimes it’s the littlest things that can make someone feel truly special.

What birthday tradition do you remember from your childhood? What traditions do you have now with your own kids/family?

Anyway, Happy Birthday to my dear husband and Happy Half Birthday to me!

 

 

 

7251 Roumare Road

 

Up until my 7^th birthday, I lived in a peach-colored house on the corner plot of our blue-collar neighborhood. 7251 Roumare Road.

The backyard was every child’s dream equipped with a classic metal swing set. A sandbox my dad built himself, and the only pool on the block.

My memories of 7251 Roumare Road are somewhat limited, helped along only by dozens of polaroids printed and stuck in a photo album on the shelf in my living room.

I find it very interesting that one distinct memory I have of that house is one I cannot find a single picture of. The cherry trees, in full bloom at the side of the house, produced hundreds of thousands of deep, burgundy-colored cherries. Tart and juicy and absolutely the taste of summer!

I specifically remember my summertime daily routine. I’d wake up and immediately put on my bathing suit (80’s girl all the way!)  I’d head down to the kitchen and join my older sister at the table for a bowl of cheerios with milk. We’d shovel those little O’s into our mouths as fast as we could then head to the clothesline, our beach towels from the day before hanging stiffly on the line.

After hours of swimming our tummies would rumble fiercely. We’d grab our towels and head to those cherry trees.  Laying our towels under the shade of the cherry trees, we’d pick handful after handful of those dark cherries. We’d pile them up on our towel until we knew the mound was far more than we could eat. (Side note: just about every beach towel had cherry juice stains on them. My poor mother!)

Criss-cross applesauce, we sat on those towels eating cherries and spitting pits until we got too hot and had to go jump in the pool.

Pool. Cherry trees. 

Pool. Cherry trees. 

That was the summertime daily routine, all day every day, right up until supper time.

By the time I turned eight, we dismantled the swimming pool and took it with us when we moved from 7251 Roumare Road (that’s another story for another time.)

A few years ago, I found myself feeling nostalgic and decided I’d drive by my childhood house for a quick peek.

That little peach house on the corner? It’s now a medium shade teddy bear brown.

The swing set and handmade sandbox? Nowhere in sight.

The two cherry trees? Chopped down. (Honest to God- this is not a play on the George Washington cherry tree story.)

I parked across the street and stared in disbelief. What were they thinking? Did the trees get sick and stop producing fruit? Maybe the new homeowners are allergic to cherries. I’ll never know. I got emotional looking at the blank patch of grass where the cherry trees once bloomed, but I wiped my tears and reminded myself- the cherry trees will always be there so long as the memory, one that has survived nearly forty years, remains with me forever.

I don’t see myself forgetting anytime soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

No idea is ever too small. 

I’m amazed at how many times a day I’m inspired by something very simple. Whether it’s something I see or a memory I have, I immediately open my notes and jot it down.

*Write about the cherry tree at the house you grew up in- the summer days you spent endlessly eating cherries, spitting the pits and lounging on a beach towel in your neon bathing suit (I was a kid swimming in the mid to late 80’s.)

*Write about the time you visited the local farm stand at Christmas time and the nostalgia you experienced at their homey gift shop.

*Write about the lyrics to that song you just listened to (man, those lyrics were GOOD!)

*Write about your take-away from that TED TALK video.

On and on the list goes.

I think many of these “Write About” topics will eventually turn into short autobiographical memoir style blurbs for my blog or maybe they’ll be nothing at all. But some of them have already set me on a path to brainstorm and outline deeper thoughts and ideas on what could potentially become a full-length book.

The point is- I think we sometimes dismiss the smallest bits of inspiration too quickly. We think an idea isn’t big or interesting enough.

An idea doesn’t have to be big or interesting- but as a writer I can bring that idea to life and make it BIG- make it interesting! It’s not the topic’s responsibility- it’s the writer’s responsibility to create something meaningful! That is the magic of writing!

Taking small, insignificant thoughts and running with them- turning them into something so relatable and interesting is what motivates me to write. Creating something out of (almost) nothing gives me a rush!

We don’t have to look that hard if we understand that everything and everyone around us has a story waiting to be told.

Go look for yourself!

 

Galley in the Sky

 

As the sun met the horizon, shadows darkened the cobblestone streets teasing the vendors into thinking the day was, at last, over. “Another hour, at least,” Edith mumbled under her breath as she counted the spice jars left to sell for the day. Spices of all kinds, cinnamon and mustard seed being her most popular, stood at attention collecting dust from 

the wagons passing by. Around each bottle, Edith had wrapped a little piece of colorful ribbon, scraps from her father’s draper shop before it had burned to the ground, her father and dear mother still within.

Scraps of ribbon were all that remained to remind Edith of her father, but Mother kept her spice collection in a small wooden box in the alley behind the draper and was therefore spared from the fire. Father did not approve of his wife’s “silly obsession with herbs and spices,” Edith remembered him mocking Mother.

“My dear husband, if not for the spices in your morning porridge you would weep and wail your displeasure. The herbs which you claim to be “nothing more than concoctions of grass and sand” oft’ give you liberation from your aching bones. And so, my dear husband, it is these, “silly herbs and spices” that you owe a great debt of gratitude to, and I will continue to make use of them as my mother did and her mother before her.”

Mother caught Edith’s eye, gave a wink and a smirk and whispered, “Those who do not understand that everything has potential to be improved upon, even with the tiniest pinch of this or that, will likely never attain their own full potential. We must know that it takes only one small thing to change us forever, my dear Edith.”

Edith smiled warmly remembering her mother as she arranged the spices for the twenty-seventh time that day.

“Good morrow!” a Baron startles Edith causing three glass vials to crash to the ground.

“My goodness, my lord, you frightened me!”

The man swiftly bent to help Edith collect the shards of broken glass. “My deepest apologies, lambkin. I did not mean to alarm you, only to ask you about your spices.”

“It’s no bother, the day is nearly through. What can I assist you with, my lord?”

“I require a rare spice, one called cardamom.”

“Cardamom? That is exceedingly rare, my lord. I do not have that in my collection. I do not even know how to acquire such a rare spice.”

“Ah, yes, it can be difficult to obtain. I wonder, do you then have saffron?”

“My lord, I have all sorts of spices- black pepper, cinnamon, sugar, and even ginger. But no cardamom or saffron.”

The Baron, disappointment coloring his expression, looks around the street market as if worried he is being watched.

“My dear, I must find cardamom or saffron to offer to my- er, my,” the man stumbles over his words, grasping at straws to pull the right ones out of the air. “It’s just, can I show you something if you promise absolute discretion?”

“But my spices, I must stay with them. I cannot risk leaving in case an earl or perhaps a duke requires a spice most urgently for their royal kitchen!”

The Baron gave no response but instead looked sadly at the untouched rows of vials and then at Edith. “Lambkin, the day is nearly over. Your spices will be here when we return.”

Edith looked around the market in the same pattern the Baron had followed earlier with his eyes. She hesitated. “Market hours are nearly over and hardly any of my spices have sold,” she considered for another moment. The wind picks up a layer of dust and swirls around her. She can’t be sure if it’s the wind whistling or the distant echo of the other vendors in the square, but something whispers to her, “Go, Edith. Adventure awaits.”

The sun finally makes its exit behind the mountains as Edith and the Baron make their way to the port in tandem. “Forgive me, I have not yet introduced myself. My name is Richard.  Lord Richard Godfrey.” He offers his hand to Edith, which she accepts cautiously.

“Edith, my lord. Edith Draper.”

“Ah, the daughter of an artisan. You certainly have an artistic eye. I was admiring your glass vials, how you adorned them with beautiful ribbon. It is what caught my eye and led me to you.”

“But, my lord, I thought it was your quest for spices that brought you to my little shop, no?”

Lord Godfrey looked around sheepishly avoiding Edith’s eyes and her question. “Well, yes, lambkin, yes of course. I do in fact still require those rare spices, indeed.”

The moon now approaching the early evening sky, Lord Godfrey and Edith step onto the dock, the water beginning to sparkle with moonlight and the glow of the street torches. “There. Do you see it?” Lord Godfrey looks out over the water with pride and excitement.

Edith, too, looks over the water but all she sees is a decrepit galley, barely staying afloat. Its sails torn in four places and the planks near the stern were rotting. The mainmast displayed the most peculiar banner, one Edith surely had never seen before. She could not understand the lord’s enthusiasm upon seeing such a horrid wreck.

“My lord, it is—er, it is certainly a sight to behold.”

Lord Godfrey turned to Edith noticing she was not looking where he had intended her to. “No, Edith, not there. There,” he said, craning his neck further and pointing to the sky.

Edith’s eye followed the imaginary line drawn by his crooked finger and there she saw it. The galley in the sky, floating on air rather than water. Edith’s knees buckled beneath her.

Lord Godfrey reached out to steady her, grabbing her by the waist. “I know, lambkin, it is a sight most difficult to comprehend,” he chuckled.

“But I don’t understand. How does it float on the air and not the sea? Is it some kind of magic? Witchcraft?” Edith frantically searched the faces of the shipwrights and townspeople milling about the dock. None of them seemed to be aware of the mysterious floating galley.

“Do not fret, lambkin. They cannot see what you and I see. I was not certain you would be able to see it, but the wind whispered to me, “There, Richard. She is the one. Yes, that one there.”

“But how?” Edith could hardly catch her breath. Her mind was racing, her heart nearing an impossible speed, the rhythm reminding her of a hundred Arabian horses galloping the highway just outside of town.

“I know it is much to take in, but you can see it, and you must come with me to board the ship at once.”

“I shall do no such thing! Do you take me for a madwoman? And even if I agreed, how does one board a ship suspended in the sky?”

“One must only believe and take the first step,” Lord Godfrey reassured her reaching for her hand.

Edith instinctively backed away but stopped short of running away. The wind tickled the water then made its approach toward Edith. Misting her with the cool sea water, the wind whispered again, “Go, Edith. Adventure awaits.”

Edith reached for Lord Godfrey’s hand, still extended, and suddenly felt herself moving.  She felt the air and the sea but no earth beneath her feet. Focusing only on the floating galley and the warmth of Lord Godfrey’s smooth hand, she did not resist.

As the galley drew near, she could see into the admiral’s quarters where an old man stooped over a kettle resting atop a crackling hearth. It appeared the man could not straighten his posture as he hobbled from the hearth to a tall chest at the opposite side of the quarters.

“That is Viscount Welles. He was once the deputy of Duke Herrington’s estate, appointed at the young age of five and thirty, until he fell ill with a mysterious plague just a fortnight from his first day. He lay in his chambers in agony with pain he could not explain. Hour by hour, he felt the skin of his face and hands begin to shrivel. The hair upon his head turned silver right before his eyes. He could not make sense of it, nor could any of the healers that came from all lands both above and below the great sea.”

“When did this man begin to suffer? How does he come to find himself here on this galley in the sky?” Edith continued to watch the man work at the kettle, his hand trembling as he attempted to ladle a thin broth from the kettle to his bowl.

“The year of our lord, thirteen hundred and one.”

“But Lord Godfrey, is it not now the year of our lord, thirteen hundred and two? Do you mean to tell me this man, aged five and thirty, fell ill just one year ago and now looks to be five and ninety?” Edith’s tone was skeptical, if not mocking.

“As I said, Edith, t’was a mysterious plague that infected his body. When no healer could discover the root of his deterioration, he turned to an herbalist. She arrived under the cover of a moonless night, as herbalists have oft been accused of witchcraft. She gave him a tonic, a dreadful substance, smelling of toads and horse manure, that reversed his condition, but only temporarily.”

Lord Godfrey continued his tale, speaking softly so as not to draw attention from the Viscount. “The moon stayed dormant many nights since that night, but upon its return, shining so brightly casting ominous shadows, Viscount Welles watched in the mirror as his skin wrinkled and hair faded from deep brown to glittering silver.”

“The moonlight was making him ill. That’s preposterous!” Edith shrieked.

Lord Godfrey, putting a finger to his lips, begged her to hush.

“No, lambkin. It is still not known what caused his illness, only that the tonic the herbalist administered to him that dark night healed him. Mortified by his appearance, he fled the duke’s estate to search for the herbalist.”

“I still do not understand the galley in the sky,” Edith pondered.

“It is difficult to explain. It came to him in a dream one night as he lay sleeping under a crooked oak tree. On the galley’s deck was the herbalist that cured the Viscount. She reached out her hand and pulled him aboard the galley and he’s remained here ever since.”

“You mean to tell me this galley is in a dream? We are now in his dream?” Edith’s head began to spin. A pounding at the base of her skull filled her ears with a dreadful thud, thud, thud.

Lord Godfrey offered a bashful smirk, rubbed at his chin hairs and nodded in agreement. “Yes, Edith, we are now in his dream. It is another long and confusing story how I came to be the gatekeeper between the real world and Viscount Welles’s dream. As such, we shall save the tale for another time.”

“Why did you bring me here, Lord Godfrey?”

“Ah, yes of course. You did not have cardamom nor saffron, two spices the herbalist required for her tonic to heal Viscount Welles. However, the herbalist, speaking in riddles and poems, let on that there might be another way to free Viscount Welles of his infirmity.”

One whom listens to the wind

The ashes of her ancestors

Mixed in the dust beneath her feet.

A diligent woman, staying true to her roots

honoring the memory of those before her

She follows her heart

Not the ways of the world

Neither gold coins nor jewels sway her from her work.

Simple and fair, honest and true

Adventure calls for her

Find her and you’ll find what ye seek.

“I am the one whom listens to the wind?” Edith took a moment to repeat the words quietly to herself. “I am the one who listens to the wind. The ashes of my dear father and mother burned in the draper fire many years ago. Spices, my mother’s true passion and love in this world, left behind for me to continue her legacy. I am the one whom listens to the wind.”

Lord Godfrey, giving her a moment to process everything he had bestowed upon her, gripped her hand gently, hoping to keep her from jumping overboard, should she realize this whole thing was madness- that she must be mad- that she herself was in her own dream.

“Will you come meet Viscount Welles?” Lord Godfrey pleaded. “Please, Edith.”

Without response, Edith took a step forward, Lord Godfrey following her lead. Their hands remained clasped as she descended upon the steps to the admiral’s quarters. As she entered the quarters, the old man, Viscount Welles, turned violently, his body jerking the chest, knocking his bowl of broth to the floor.

Edith, letting go of Lord Godfrey’s hand fell immediately to her knees to retrieve the bowl while Lord Godfrey grabbed a cloth to mop the spilt broth. As she started to rise to her feet, her eyes met those of Viscount Welles. Edith looked away briefly, embarrassed to make eye contact while still practically kneeling. But as she straightened her knees and came to her full stature, Viscount Welles looked up into her eyes.

Silence fell over the quarters. Before an introduction could be made, Viscount Welles took Edith’s hand, marveling at her skin, feeling the smoothness of each fingertip. Edith blushed and turned away once again.

Viscount Welles reached for her chin, willing her to look at him. As she slowly turned her face toward him, he was no longer beneath her. Her head jerked upward, finding that the man’s eyes were now nearly at her own eye level. The Viscount! He was no longer bent at the waist. He was tall, several inches taller than Edith, and the skin of his face was smooth- not a single crease or crack.

Edith turned to find Lord Godfrey to confirm whether he was seeing the Viscount as she could see him, but he had vanished.

“Lord Godfrey?” Edith called out. “Lord Godfrey, where have you gone to?”

Viscount Welles laid his hand upon her shoulder gently, turning her toward him he spoke, “Lambkin, it is I, Lord Godfrey.”

Confusion cast over Edith’s face. She shook her head as if to wake herself from this bizarre dream. “I do not understand. Lord Godfrey is the one who brought me to you and now he has gone.”

“No, lambkin, it is I who came to you. I am trapped in this dream, upon this vessel in the sky and my heart longs for another to join me on my journey. I came to you as Lord Godfrey to bring you here, to spend your days with me, if you’ll accept.”

Edith looked around the admiral’s quarters. It was plain but not ghastly. The surfaces were well maintained, and it was not cluttered or overrun with debris. She peered through the window down to the sea and land below. The traffic on the deck and in the square had thinned allowing her to see the market square where her spices, all still there, as they promised they would be, sparkled in the moonlight.

 She turned back to look at Viscount Welles. “But how can I leave my spices? They were my mother’s and she loved them so.”

“The spices were your mothers, indeed, but they are not your own. Your mother is with you always, with or without the spices. Don’t you think your mother would want you to find your own love- your own dream in this world?”

Edith conjured a vision of her mother, remembering her spirit and counsel, “My dear Edith, do not forget whence you come nor let it keep you from the path you’re meant to take.”

Edith, looking back into Viscount Welles’s warm eyes, her breath catching as a gust of wind blew through the quarters, stopped to listen. But it wasn’t the wind whispering- it was Viscount Welles’s voice that breathed into her ear, “My dear, lambkin. Come. Adventure awaits.”