Sometimes you a little story, set it free for the world to see, and then you wish you’d written something else. You could go back and do a rewrite, but then you decide to let it go and just get on with your life.
If you’re really lucky, the person who talked you into writing said story will revisit the prompt for the story and give you another chance. That, my friends, is exactly what Miss San Diego Momma has done this week.
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“Wait!” I screamed after her. “Your hat!”
She ignored me, which was to be expected. We hadn’t talked, not really anyway, in more than 10 years. I scooped up her black hat. The mesh veil fluttered beneath my fingers…
The fabric felt rougher than it ought to, I thought. Perhaps it was just because my fingers were still cut and bleeding from where they’d been rubbed raw just days ago as I had run them across the pavement in the dark, praying our driver wouldn’t accidentally take us over a clff.
Lights out. That was the rule. Once darkness hit, we had to draw the blackout curtains or extinguish all lights. Driving was impossible with out headlights, especially on the twisting and turning road that ran up the very steep mountainside. But for my family, traveling at night was our only option. If we attempted to travel during the day, surely we’d be caught. And so it came to be that I had to hang out of the slow-moving car using my hand to feel for the edge of the road. One little mistake and the children I’d managed to keep from the death squads and the bombs would be gone in an instant. Pain no longer mattered. I didn’t care if I pulled back bloody stumps for hands, I was going to get my babies home.
Home. It seemed so very far away as I held that hat in my hands. I’d left the warmth of my parents’ home ten years ago, following a man — my man — into a world that frightened them. They knew danger awaited me. I knew it, too. I had to go, though, because I loved him with all my heart and I believe his cause was just. I could have stayed with my mother and father and simply waited for his return, but my heart insisted that I go with him.
Now he was gone, a victim of the violence wrought by a heartless and cowardly man. A man who sent killers to the doorsteps of the families of the men he killed. A man who tortured women and children for sport. My husband was gone. The loving, kind, and thoughtful man who would pick wildflowers for me each day they were in bloom. The man who wrote heartfelt songs and funny poetry as we grew our family. The man my parents hated almost as much as they hated the one who had him murdered.
And yet, my mother had appeared graveside. She raced off before I could discover her reason for coming to his funeral. After all, the funeral was being watched by evil men. Anyone in attendance was in danger. Was she hoping to get a glimpse of her grandchildren? Was she hoping to remind me that my rash decision all those years ago had been destined to end in pain and misery? I looked up from the black hat and the mesh and she was gone, taking my unanswered questions with her.
I have duplicate songs on a playlist. I see them. I don’t delete one. Why? WHY?