Last Train for Home

She moved a little closer to the edge after sitting there for a while. The stomach ache gnawed at her now and then. She ignored it. The pain became easier to endure after some practice.

The locomotive in the distant dark cried a muffled woo-woo. She listened and remembered sitting in one a few months ago. How hopeful and bright-eyed she was.

Momma, wait for my letter--she had said to her mother. I will save every penny I make and send them to you. You will be able to buy meat and new fabrics for the family. We will have a much better life after I get there. They say everything is better at the factory. Money, meals, and new dorms. Oh, I can't wait to get there.

She remembered eating dry bread on the train. Her mother saved all she could to make the flat bread for her trip. She couldn't afford to buy anything during the trip. They spent all they had to get her the train ticket.

Momma, they took my ID card the first day I got here. I couldn't go home without it.

They took most of my wages, too. They said it was for security's sake. I soon realized it was for their security, not mine. It was the way to make sure we would stay there forever.

There was plenty of work. Too much work. And we weren't allowed to say no. It seemed the back-orders never stopped flooding in. The kids in "The Beautiful Country" are so lucky. These gadgets we make day and night couldn't fill their demand. They must have so much money.

We didn't have time to rest on days at a time. Often we didn't have time to eat. I had to swallow my rice so fast, soon my stomach started to ache. They wouldn't let me go to the hospital. They would deduct my wages for missing work, they said. So I pushed the pain away and worked.

At night my dorm-mates could hear my pain even though I tried to hide it. The dorms were big rooms with curtain dividers between rows of beds. Ah May was my neighbor. She was worried for me, but there was little she could do to help. She smuggled rice mush for me when she could--it helped ease my pain a bit. My line supervisor was not happy with me. He said I worked too slow. That meant deduction on my wages.

I'm so tired, momma. I feel dizzy. I hadn't slept for two days now. The orders must be filled, so nobody could rest until they were done. I complained to the head of the union once, and I learned not to do it again. The company's manager reprimanded me in front of all my dorm-mates for complaining. I was so naive. I didn't know the union leader reported to him.

We have fifteen minutes for dinner, then we have to go back to work. I snuck up here because it's quiet and peaceful. I'm tired and dizzy, but I'm not hungry. Momma, I really don't want to go back to the factory. I don't know how much longer I could endure the dreadful place and endless work. I don't care if they take my wages. I just want to sleep.

She moved again but wavered and lost her balance. The last thing she saw was the concrete-covered ground rushing up to meet her.

The woman a thousand miles away heard the soft whistle of a train passing by the village. She wondered when her daughter would be home again. Her last letter was more than a month ago. Is she alright? The low and sad whistle made her eyes watery.

She didn't know her daughter had already started her journey home.



(To the twelve workers committed suicide at Foxconn. 'The Beautiful Country' in Chinese means U.S.A.)

Grounded

Go away, I whisper to myself. Please...just go away.

But no. The little girl and her little dog get closer. The bouncy, featherless, naked dog looks into the viny grass where I thought was a good hiding place.

I back up a little when its little brown nose gets close, praying that they don't see me.

"There it is!" The little girl shrieks.

Qua! Qua! Mom is very mad at this--they are getting too close to me. She jumps around yelling with all her force. Soon dad joins her. I could see from under the grass that they both are jumping up and down, and the screaming is almost deafening.

I know they are worried sick, but all this noise is not helping with my hiding.

A woman with another little dog appears from behind a door. At lease this dog has long hair and doesn't look obscenely naked. Something tells me I should move, and fast.

I jump out of the viny grass when the little girl is not looking in my direction, and hop with all the strength I can summon to get away.

The shoulder hurts when I hop, but the other side of the courtyard looks safer than here.

The little dog, the little girl, the woman with the little dog in her arms, all follow me as if I was putting on a magic show. Mom and dad follow me from above--never stop yelling for a second.

This is aggravating. Why couldn't these people just leave me alone? Thank goodness the bushes and grass are coming up. With one last hop I dive into the grass.

The woman disappears and reappears without the little dog, and her hands are covered with something thick. She tries to grab me. I dodge and sidestep in the grass so she can't reach me. I show her my sharp beak and imitate mom's screaming when her hands are upon me. That scares her and makes her stop. She disappears.

A guy appears from nowhere and tries the same thing. I scare him away the same way I did with the woman. All this hopping around trying to stay away from them is hurting me even more.

I survived the night before on unsuspecting bugs and dew drops on the grass. I'm sure I can manage if they will just let me be.

Mom and dad still jump from branch to branch, screaming at the top of their lungs. Qua! Qua! Her voice is getting coarse, but she doesn't stop.

I'm sorry, mom. I didn't mean to make you worry. The worm looked so good and I wanted to show you how strong I was. I didn't see the short tree next to it until too late. I miss our warm and safe home up there. I want to go back, but I don't know when I will be able to fly again. My chest hurts each time the thought occurs.

The woman tells the man she called the animal services. I hope they are less annoying than these people and dogs. I can't get a minute of rest when they are around.

All of a sudden they don't worry me that much anymore.

From the corner of my eyes I could see a steel-gray cat quietly approaching. Mom told me before: it is one of the most dangerous things I should watch for when out hunting for worms.

I'm scared. From the screaming noise made by mom and dad, I know they are, too. I hope I can survive tonight.

When Good Girl Gone Bad...

I am ashamed to say that I have been a bad girl lately.

I have been a little depressed after the visit to my mom's. We are now in a holding pattern as she couldn't decide whether to move in with me or not. Regardless of her decision some significant challenges will present themselves for sure. The fact that Parkinson's could be genetically passed down didn't help either, so I escaped to the imaginary land of stories. I piled up the awards I was given, awesome blogs that I should have mentioned and passed the awards forward, and buried my head in the sand for the past few months.

That's what I meant by "good girl gone bad." I hope you weren't expecting something else.

There are other reasons for my postponement. Each time I recieve an award it's incredibly humbling for me. Someone thinks my blog is not only worth reading, but worthy of an award! I am forever grateful for being able to make the journey to the wonderland, and take you with me for the ride.

The pressure of passing down the award is another reason. All I can say is there are too many great blogs/writers out there and not enough awards to go around. All the blogs I'm following are wonderful and worth your visit.

Here are the awards I stored away and now is the time to say thanks:

http://sarah-writerinmaking.blogspot.com/

Sarah just finished her 250-page book, so I should say Sarah, a writer is born!

http://reallifeinaminute.blogspot.com/

Sandra is a former math teacher. Alas, she has moved on to other things in life. I hope someday she'll revive her blog to document the progress in her artistic pursuit.

http://ubergrumpy.blogspot.com/

He combines the Englishman's humor with the most, eh hum, interesting, pictures on his blog.

http://tgoette-sophisticatedlunacy.blogspot.com/

Tom's lunacy can be related to many, and particularly, me.

http://sarah-writerinmaking.blogspot.com/

Back to Sarah again. I find her life in Canada as a student very interesting and her writing introspective. I'm sure you will, too.

Thank you all for thinking of me. I have an award for you as well. (see below for the fireworks one)

Some awards have rules to follow and some don't. I can't remember which is which, so I'm making up my own. I'm listing some of the wonderful blogs here for you to check them out. The blog owners below can grab any awards above and do whatever they want:

Hunter has a way with words and is working on a novel. That's how you can tell who a serious writer is. http://timecrook.blogspot.com/

Bruce's columnist style writing is always insightful and powerful. I won't be surprised if he's secretly working for Boston Globe or New York Times. http://brucecoltin.blogspot.com/

Tina's supernatural stories send chills down your spine. She, too, is working on a novel--her second one. http://www.thecleanwhitepage.com/

Charlene finds lessons even in life's most difficult chapters. Her blog is always uplifting and inspirational. http://www.beamingbalance.com/

Lou is a talented writer. I think she is also working on a novel--another real writer in the making. http://livewritedream.blogspot.com/

Judie makes breathtakingly beautiful arts of various mediums. Her feelings come through in her words and just as touching. http://rogueartistsspeak.blogspot.com/

Kitty's stories make you laugh, cry, and laugh some more. Her life in UK will hook you on the first read. http://kittymoore.blogspot.com/

Angie is another artist with an uncommon medium: pyrography. It's a slow but interesting progress. http://angierea-originalpyrographicart.blogspot.com/

Robyn has the worst luck in dating, but that makes great blogging material for us. I hope her bad luck continues...just kidding Robyn. http://rawknrobynsgoneblogwild.blogspot.com/

I know I missed quite a few great bloggers out there, so here is an award I made in case you're visiting:

To all the followers and all the blogs I'm following--You are all awesome!

Sacrifice

How long had it been? She couldn't remember. Her eyes were blurry and her throat was dry. Slowly she picked herself up from the floor, holding on to the wall that once was a door.

She tried to clear her throat, but the only sound it made was a scratchy echo rippled in the vast room. She looked around with a cold smile.

The walls were painted with deities to guide and welcome the pharaoh's arrival. The scripts next to them depicted what a great king he was. All the figurings, jewelries, furniture and everything else they thought the pharaoh would need in his afterlife was provided, richly decorated with glittering gold and priceless gems. The garnet ring whispered to her under the torch light with its crimson curse.

She grabbed the ring and threw it against the door with a desparate roar.

Her parents were more than relieved when she was picked by the pharaoh's court. They could barely feed the family of seven. Now she could take care of the family for a change.

And she did. The pharaoh was charmed by her gift of singing and dancing. She was showered with jewelries, presents and servants, and most of all, the pharaoh's frequent visit to her chamber. She sent most of the favors home.

"Papa, put these away for me please." She said. Her papa understood the unspoken words, and kept the small stash for her. The family was well fed now, but she was afraid of her position in the pharaoh's court. She couldn't give him a son, a tragedy saddened them both, but his love for her never wavered. It was his wife's jealous look that worried her the most.

Being the pharaoh's favorite woman, she imagined a quiet and secluded life after his passing. After all, he was quite a bit older than her. Although he promised to take care of her, she knew her fate would be uncertain once her protector was gone. Still, she had prayed to the gods that she would be sent home by the queen to live out the rest of her life.

She laughed. A tear slid down her cheek and she didn't wipe it away. She didn't suspect a thing when the queen told her to dress up for the funeral. We need to look our best for the pharaoh's journey, she said.

She was in the middle of the prayers when she suddenly realized her voice sounded hollow in the room. She looked up and saw the last of sunlight before the stone door slowly closed out the world behind it. She ran to it screaming, "No! Have mercy, My Lady!"

The queen's voice coldly replied, "Thank you for volunteering your companion, Amarna. We are grateful for your sacrifice." With that, the door was sealed forever.

The air felt cool and heavy in her chest. There wasn’t much time left. She found a hairpin in the jewelry chest and started carving on the wall. She and her family would be long gone when someone saw this—if it would be seen at all. Her only hope was her story would be told, and her name would be remembered.

Her malachite-green eye shadows were smeared with black eyeliners by tears, but nobody would witness it. She would leave the gold and turquoise necklace, bracelets and headdress on her, so one day people will have a clue as who she was from her remains.

I may not have an afterlife for the lack of a proper burial, but my name will live forever--she promised herself.

(A trip to the Egyptian museum inspired my wild imagination.)

Veil of the Night

I adjust the paper bag in my hand before opening the door to the living room. Not because I have anything to hide. I hope for her sake she knows how to behave by now. It's easier if she doesn't see the wine right away.


She comes over with a smile and says 'hi honey.' I peck her cheek just light enough to keep her on her toes. It tells her to watch out and leave me alone. Sure enough, her smile becomes somewhat uncertain. A subtle cloud arises between us just the way I wanted.

I suppress a chuckle with pursed lips. It's the oldest trick on earth--the best defense is an early offense. She is weak as usual to counter my game plan.

The kids stand half way on the stairs and say hi to me before quietly going back to their homework. I stop and listen for a while--it is quiet upstairs as usual. They know the rule: no TV before finishing their homework. I will not have a noisy house when I come home, and this assures it stay that way.

They are good kids--if you think getting good grades at school and not rowdy like other teenagers are good. I make sure they understand where they are in my eyes. When she showed me the daughter's report card with all As, I reminded her that she was not in the special program for gifted kids. She got quiet.

Don't even try to imply I am stupid because I didn't finish college. I easily proved to the three of them I was smarter than any of them. Now they tip-toe around me just as I expected.

It is even easier with the boy. He is a happy little guy with short memory span. There is no lacking of words or opportunities to put him in his place. "Dumb-ass" seems to quiet him down fast enough.

I provide this home for them, and I make sure they appreciate it and worship me properly. I need them to show that nobody is more superior to me.

She is cooking something in the kitchen. I walk in there and take a silent look into the pan. I walk out with a glass and a bottle opener. This will no doubt make her doubt her own cooking and leave me further alone.

I listen to the soft chatters between her and the kids in the kitchen while quietly nursing my White Zin in the living room. I know she glanced at my direction a few times, wondering what was wrong. Just the way I wanted her to feel.

I might open a second bottle if the moods fit me. This should teach her a lasting lesson.

She had the nerve to challenge me to stop drinking. For a whole month! I told her I could stop any time I wanted, and I took up her challenge successfully for two weeks. That should be more than enough to prove that I didn't have a problem. I saw no point in continuing it. So what if I drink a bottle or two after work? It's not a big deal, and it irks me that she thinks it is. It's the reward I deserve after a day in the office.

The best way to make her stop challenging me is to turn the table on her. I did it for years, on many people. I knew it would work, and it did not disappoint. I took over control on everything within a month.

The old man's face slowly surfaces as I start the first glass. The anger I felt when he raised his fist to my mother, the shame I felt when he called me names, and the worst of all: the fear and powerlessness he made me feel every time he had a drunken rage. I take a big gulp from the glass to dampen the nameless anger rising inside.

I swore I would never feel that way again--by anyone. I make sure she knows I have no problem raising my fist to her--the way I did to the one before her. I am, after-all, three times her weight. I could break her with two fingers. She knows very well that I am a real man. Too bad the old man isn't here, but she and the kids are.

It is getting late. The house is quiet. They know I don't like laughter or noise. The old man's face starts to fade as the White Zin goes down in the bottle. I think I will open another one just to make sure he vanishes completely.

When I go up there she has better be ready. The king of the night will take whatever he pleases.

E. O. E.

“Guess what I found out?”

Sharla and I became friends after working several months together, and we talked once in a while after I left.

“What?” Her tone of voice piqued my curiosity; although I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to find out. I braced myself for the suspense.

“Judy, one of the new hires, is the sister of the other team lead – Pam.”

The forgotten rage flooded back with a vengeance. So many questions were suddenly answered.

QHF was one of the major energy companies in this state. The interview for the contract job had gone well with two supervisors, and I didn’t mind the long commute too much. It was a nice change to trade driving with reading on the train.

However, the job itself left much to be desired. Of each and every step in the project management process, an approval was required. Project assistants spent most of their days sending out, chasing after, and archiving these approvals. Whoever designed this process must have lived in the 19th century and stayed there. I watched with dread each time I glanced at their enormous spreadsheet used just to keep track of the status of all the approvals.

Thank heavens I didn’t have to do that. The manager whose work I was supporting decided not to manage her program, which was entirely different from other projects, with this cumbersome process. I did have to spend a lot of time converting spreadsheet data into a project plan in the beginning, and run intricate reports weekly, but I would do anything not to chase the approval papers daily.

The same manager also fought with two other groups to have me on her projects full-time. I was working on her projects on a part-time basis, and she was quite happy with my work. She looked intimidating, and most people shied away from working with her. I was able to look past her serious exterior and got along with her amicably -- much to my co-workers’ amazement.

I had dealt with HR department of both large and small companies long enough to ignore the first two emails encouraging us to apply for the new position. Besides, some contract jobs I had lasted longer than some of my “real" jobs, and I had become accustomed to certain degree of freedom that came with  contract josb. The second email was forwarded by my reporting supervisor with blind copies to anonymous recipients.

One morning my reporting supervisor came to my desk asking me to apply. I thought about it for a long time, then decided not to let her feel snubbed. It was a public company. Surely they would follow the laws, right?

I went through two rounds of interview. They went well. One day a man from HR called and asked for my pay rate. He indicated that he was working on an offer for me and needed that information. I was excited and started to plan my near future in the following few weeks. The job wasn’t ideal, but it provided a starting point, not to mention some sense of security that would be nice to have.

Instead of an offer letter, I received a “Thanks but no thanks” email from HR two weeks later. They had decided on a “more qualified candidate.” I saw the subsequent announcement email with the new hires’ qualifications listed. Four out of five new hires didn't have either the degree or the related work experiences required. At least two out of five didn’t have better qualifications than I did - Judy was one of them. The HR was working on my offer when they called. What happened between then and now?

I had no ways or means to fight with a team of corporate lawyers, who were paid for the sole purpose of defending the company’s interests. I talked to the sympathetic but powerless manager who I worked with, and did the only thing I could -- I left and never went back. I felt bad for leaving, but not as bad as the indication that I was unfit for the job, regardless how well it was working out for all parties involved, so they had to hire those less qualified people to fill the positions.

After I left, I was told the contractor who replaced me was so underqualified that her co-worker refused to train her. The comment I heard was "I don't have all day to train her on the basic skills she should have." She got the job because her half-sister worked there. That was not as bad, though, as the news I just heard from Sharla now.

I wonder what kind of connections the other four had.

For a few weeks I had really thought an enormous company with state-wide offices and employees would follow the laws and practice fair hiring. I was so pathetically wrong.

Next time I see the fine print on a company’s job site that says “We Are an Equal Opportunity Employer” I will be laughing so hard that my sides will split open. I will probably need medical attention, but it will be completely worth it.

Lost

Screens of bamboos stood on guard on one side of the dirt road. Rice grasses swayed like sheets of green silk fluffed by a gentle and invisible hand on the other side of the road. I turned and looked at the other end of the road, only to find the same country scene. Panic, not serenity, hit me in an afternoon filled with pre-storm damp heat.

The seed of decades of nightmare had just been planted. It was the worst kind any kid could have--I was lost.

The singing rehearsal at the radio station had gone well, and we were told to come back the next day. A group of my classmates chosen by the teacher walked together toward the little village settlement while chatting, laughing and teasing. The head of the class was among us, and I was the target of his constant teasing. It must have been puppy love they so lovingly named it. I didn't feel much of the loving to be frank; but then, I was only in second grade.

I made the turn and walked away from the group. He yelled at me over and over: "No, Sarah. This is the way home! Not that one!" I refused to listen, thinking he was teasing me again, and I wasn't going to fall for that.

Now I desperately wanted to reverse that bad decision.

There was not a soul in sight. I had traversed the roads forever and no matter which way I turned, they all seemed familiar at first, and turned into another wrong direction shortly. I was both tired and anxious. My parents would think I was stupid not to follow the group. Worse yet, it was getting dark.

A small house sitting a few yards off the dirt road with a window that glowed warm amber light drew me closer to it. Either my pacing up and down or my sobbing, although I don't remember crying, caught the attention of a man and he walked out of the house. It wasn't difficult to see that I was miserably lost. He invited me into his house.

He had a wife and a little girl close to my age. We might have been going to the same school, but I didn't know her. I didn't refuse the dinner, but I couldn't eat much either. The reaction from my parents worried me the most. I asked them to take me home after dinner, but it started to pour and didn't want to stop. Finally they said I should spend the night there and they would take me home in the morning. There were no streetlights in country side, and nobody owned a car.

I was going to share the bed with their daughter. Just when I was getting ready for bed I heard the faint shouting of my name outside. I jumped up and said: "That's my dad!"

They opened the door and called out to him. There was my father, drenched with water but relieved to see me. He thanked the kind family after scolding me for getting lost, and then we were on our way home.

The dirt road outside had turned into an endless mud path. I was riding on his back, holding on to his neck with both of my arms. It was a surreal feeling forever etched in my memory, as my father seldom held me. I saw the water drops beading down his neck, not sure if they were rain or sweat. I felt guilty for causing so much trouble. I was ashamed for being dumb enough to get lost. However, beneath all those feelings I was also a little happy. It was one of the rare moments I felt loved by him.

My parents complained to the teacher and promptly ended my singing career next day. It made me feel like the biggest idiot in the world. It was many years later that I finally could relate to the anger my parents must have felt. I still blame the boy for my inability to sing karaoke today.

Perhaps I should thank the boy instead. Perhaps, just for a moment, panic also hit my father--thinking I was forever lost. Perhaps he held me a little closer to his heart because of it.

Happy Earth Day

Happy Earth Day!

Crossing

"Hi sweetie. I miss you...”

He touches the glass cover gently. She smiles at him with her warm eyes that are forever frozen on the glossy paper. He took the picture in their last trip together. Her silver mane glows softly against the blue Tuscany sky.

The golden rays of the setting sun make her eyes glisten, as if saying to him, "I miss you, too, darling. Are you taking care of yourself? Have you eaten yet?"

Eaten? He tries to remember, but nothing comes to mind. He doesn't remember much these days. Days and nights seem to roll into one long silent movie, in it him the only actor. He doesn't feel hungry either. Food tastes bland and feels pointless nowadays. He lives for one goal: To be with his sweetie.

She continues from inside the frame and with the tone of a silver bell, “The time is almost here. Did you take care of the business like I reminded you last time, darling?”

“I did, sweetie. I can’t wait for the time to come. We will never be apart again.” He answers gently. His crinkled fingers trace her face like feathers. His eyes twinkle for a second over the thought of holding her once again.

The phone rings bluntly. He thinks it sounds like Jack, their son, so he decides not to get up from the couch.

"Dad? Are you there?" It's Julie, their daughter.

"It's time for dinner, dad, and don't forget your medication." She continues. So he hasn't had dinner. There’s a note in the kitchen somewhere telling him what medication to take after what meal. He’s tired of all the medications he has to take everyday.

"I'll call you later, dad." Julie hangs up with a little worry in her voice.

Julie comes by once a month to sort things out for him, and calls everyday to make sure he’s okay. She has a husband and three kids and her plate is really full.

Jack used to be a good kid. After his fall lately though, Jack and his wife Kate have been pushing him to move to the senior home. He knows what they want—the house, and the ease of their conscience. He doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t want to be a burden if he could help it. Jack calls once a week and each time he asks for a decision.

He doesn’t have one. Not one that Jack wanted to hear anyway.

He doesn’t want to tell him that the house goes to Julie, who has recently lost her job. Jack and Kate will just have to be understanding and make do with their two incomes. Hopefully his small savings will make them less resentful after he's gone.

He always had the mental image of growing old with his wife, but fate has a different plan for him.

“It’s better this way, sweetie. I know now.” He says lovingly to the smile in the picture frame. “It’s not much fun growing old alone. I hate to think this would be what you had to go through if I went first.”

All affairs are in order. He checks his letter to the kids and feels completely calm. I’m ready, sweetie. It’s been long enough. I want to be with you and it’s time. I have waited so long. I don’t want to spend another day without you.

*  *  *

The woman opens the door and yells, “Mr. Stafford , are you home? It’s Wednesday—the cleaning day.”

The house feels hollow and cold. She looks around and sees the framed picture on the couch. She picks it up and puts it back on the coffee table.

“Strange. I always thought the picture had only Mrs. Stafford in it…“ She shrugs to herself and proceeds to the kitchen, calling “Mr. Stafford?”

The elderly couple in the picture smiles silently and happily, their silhouette forever frozen in the frame.

(Artwork done by Emily Tai)

In Her Shoe

The leaves on the ash trees outside the window rustle gently in the morning breeze. It’s too early for the ocean on the horizon to show off its turquoise shimmers, but you know it’s there. The cool, damp air and the waves of salty sea kelp smell constantly remind her of it.

It’s still new and strange to her. She grew up on a tropical island where the beach and the sea water were always warm and welcoming. Here, you can barely put your feet in the edge of the water before you have to hastily retreat and wipe the beads off of them. Frigid water does not spell welcome to her since her first attempt.

Tara’s unhappy and disapproving face comes back to her. She gets up to refill her tea mug, trying unsuccessfully to fill her head with a different image. She tells herself it's only a dream.

Tara--always the sentimental and considerate girl of the two who was the carbon copy of her own image. They are completely identical in looks and yet opposite in every other way. Tara loved small animals, while she thinks they are too much of a bother. Tara loved poems and sunset, while she couldn’t understand why.

A walk on the beach with Matt the third day after she arrived changed her mind. With Matt’s big and warm hand holding hers, the sunset at the end of the ocean looked mesmerizing in spite of the cold wind. That must have been what Tara meant, she thought to herself. Love changes everything to the brighter, better, and prettier perception. For the first time romance didn’t feel like a laughable idea.

She didn’t come here to fall in love--she argues with herself. She came with a promise to Tara. Matt was so happy to see her that words were lost in his embrace. She smiled and didn’t deny when he called out, “Tara!” and the masquerade was on. It’s too late to go back now. Tara’s tearful and fervor words still ring in her ears: Promise you will go there and tell him in person. Promise you will make sure he’s all right. I’m all he has, Darla. Don’t let his heart break.

Tara died the day they took her to the hospital. They never found out who hit her with what kind of car. She was exhausted after comforting her parents and taking care of the funeral. All she could remember was Tara’s last words when life was rapidly pulling out from her, so she made the journey. She knew Matt before she met him. Tara loved him with all she had, and it showed in the letters she wrote to Darla. Matt is not perfect, she wrote, but he is perfect for me. Darla remembered thinking to herself “I’ll give it six months” in her usual lighthearted and sarcastic way.

The sixth month never came. Tara’s vacation in her hometown turned into a bottomless nightmare, with renewed grief greeting her everyday. Darla grieved for Tara’s death, and for the happiness Tara lost. Falling in love with Matt was completely unexpected.

Did you hear that, Tara? I didn’t do this on purpose. I just couldn’t hurt him with your death. I didn’t have a choice. I see what you saw in him. He loves you without reservation. He nurses me patiently so I could gain the weight back, of which I blamed on the heat and the long journey. He made it so easy to love him. The only thing to do was to kill Darla, and that’s what I did.

“Morning.” Matt kisses her from behind and wraps his arms around her. He buries his face in the dip of her collarbone and whispers, “Did I tell you I love you?”

She closes her eyes and says, “I love you, too, Matt.”




(Happy Easter Everyone!)