What happened when you woke up? she asked.  

I looked past my toes and into my therapist’s face. She looked at me, her eyes steady. She tapped her pencil against her notebook. Tap. Tap. Tap. Her hands looked like my mother’s.

Well, I said, everything was perfectly still.

She looked at me expectantly.

More still than usual. There were no birds. No breeze. No sounds.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It was peaceful, I said. Surreal.

I switched the cross of my ankles and changed the part of her face behind my big toe.

And then? she asked.

It stopped. The silence…the stillness. A bird chirped. The curtain fluttered. My husband cracked eggs into a bowl.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

What do I do from here? I asked.

She looked at me and stopped tapping her pencil. She glanced out the window. She glanced like my father.

You wait, she said.

She looked back at me. I looked at her. The sun filtered through the curtains, sprawled across the floor, and made angles on the wall.

A cactus-shadow danced.

And we sighed.

In love and liminality,

Annie Rose  

This week I’m playing with creative writing. Each day I’m using an app to pick a random first line, subject, character, or plot. Then I’m rolling with it! Today I selected a random first line (in bold). Please be gentle with me. 😉

He opened the door to find her standing there, crying. Snot was everywhere. Tissues flew. Dogs barked.

She ushered him in and closed the door.

Can you believe this is happening? she asked. He couldn’t.

They embraced.

I’ve waited so long for this, she said. And it’s happening!

They walked into the room together. His bed was neatly made, sheets fresh, pillows fluffed. The walls were freshly painted green, his favorite color. Pictures, mostly of space—especially of the moon—sat patiently on the walls.

He walked over to Jacob’s dresser and picked up a perfectly folded blanket.

His mother gave me that, she said. His grandmother made it.

He held it in his hands and let it unfold toward the floor.

It smelled like his roots: sheep’s wool, dried grass, and earth. As it unfolded, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up. Clutched it to her heart. It read:

Thank you for loving my boy. Thank you for seeing my boy. Thank you for loving him as your own.

With trembling fingers, she lovingly smoothed out the note. She opened the back of a picture frame and tucked it inside. It would be there for him, whenever he was ready.

The doorbell rang.

They looked at each other, grasped each others hands, and walked to the door.

It was him.

He was home.

In love and liminality,

Annie Rose