Category: Love

>Breaking the Fall

>

The autumn air carried a chill, forcing us to pull sweaters over our t-shirts, and giving me a new appreciation for the warmth of his hand surrounding mine.

Our quiet voices mixed, musically, with the earthy sounds around us as we talked easily of little things.

To the left of the trail, irregularly shaped stones pointed the way to a swelling of the ground, inviting us to climb.

As my rubber-soled feet struggled to gain a foothold amongst jutting rocks and rolling stones, I thrust both hands in front of me in preparation for the fall before I feel his, larger hands around my waist, pulling me away from the rocks, and into his chest.

Climbing the rest of the way, without incident, we reached the top of the rising and stopped; to breathe, and to survey the landscape we had just traversed from a new perspective.

Standing on the apex, there is a renewed sense of hope in the clearness of the air, and gratitude that I didn’t make the climb, alone.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

God’s Music…


The air here is cool, and the humidity low. When night falls, an array of tiny, white lights twinkle between swaying branches.

Soft cushions pillow us as we sit in wrought-iron rockers, and rest our feet on wooden slats.

We sip, as we rock….

Night-sounds surround us…The chirping of insects, the trilling of tree frogs, and the intermittent call of a lonely bird…

Stars abound.

An occasional cloud floats, high above our heads, giving us reason to wonder, and an opportunity to create, as accompanying breezes play in our hair…

Will we talk, love? Will we remark on the loveliness of the geranium’s last blooms? Will we marvel on the palate of the wine, as it sits upon our tongues? Will we digest the contents of our day? Will we open up a Pandora’s Box of hopes and dreams?

Or will we sit silent, content with our condition; the air, the scenery, the wine, and God’s music…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>God’s Music…

>
The air here is cool, and the humidity low. When night falls, an array of tiny, white lights twinkle between swaying branches.

Soft cushions pillow us as we sit in wrought-iron rockers, and rest our feet on wooden slats.

We sip, as we rock….

Night-sounds surround us…The chirping of insects, the trilling of tree frogs, and the intermittent call of a lonely bird…

Stars abound.

An occasional cloud floats, high above our heads, giving us reason to wonder, and an opportunity to create, as accompanying breezes play in our hair…

Will we talk, love? Will we remark on the loveliness of the geranium’s last blooms? Will we marvel on the palate of the wine, as it sits upon our tongues? Will we digest the contents of our day? Will we open up a Pandora’s Box of hopes and dreams?

Or will we sit silent, content with our condition; the air, the scenery, the wine, and God’s music…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Has It Started Already?!


He calls me every morning at exactly the same time…

At 8:10, my cell-phone rings, and my 11 year old talks for ten minutes.

Without a breath.

“Hey, Mom, I locked the door. I have my homework. I ate my breakfast. The bus will be here in ten minutes. I wonder what we’ll have for lunch. I hate my social studies teacher. Football practice was awesome! You know how I told you about that kid, T. J.? Well, this is what I did last night….”

This makes me tired.

By now, I have walked to the front lobby of our building in order to ensure that my cell phone coverage will not be interrupted.

“Coach put the linemen in the backfield, just ‘cause we did such an awesome job on Saturday. He said he wanted to give us “a little love”. So, I’m standing back there, and Josh is about ten feet away, and Troy sails one….”

My head is in my hands, and I am breathing….

Listening and breathing….

“And, anyway, I think I got a good grade on my science test. I really feel pretty good about it. Oh,” Hey kitty”. My kitty’s here. Remember I told you about that kitty that sits with me until the bus comes? Well, she’s here. Wait….I’m gonna take a picture.”

Click.

I return to my desk and stand for several minutes in an effort to re-orient myself. The office phone rings several times, I put out several fires, and push back my chair, on my way to the water-cooler.

As I leave my office, I hear the ring that tells me I have a message.

The cat is long-haired, and calico, and though she apparently lives in my neighborhood and has a particular affinity for my son, I have never laid eyes on her before.

I show the picture to the resident cat-lover in our office whose 84 year-old eyes can’t quite make out the image. As I struggle to point it out, the phone in my hand rings, again.

“Ok, so it’s pretty cold out here, Mom. And, you know, there’s like no one else out here, so I just like put my hands in my pants. I mean, my hands were really cold and no one else could see. So I put them in there and they got warm, and so I took them out, and at the end of one of my hands was like this really LONG hair. And, I’m like “Oh, my God! Has it started already?” I mean this isn’t supposed to start now is it?”

The effort required to control my laughter silences me.

And, now, much softer, and much more insistent,

“Is it?”

Softly, persistant laughter infuses my voice as I assure us both.

“No, It’s ok. You’re ok.”

And, we are.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Has It Started Already?!

>
He calls me every morning at exactly the same time…

At 8:10, my cell-phone rings, and my 11 year old talks for ten minutes.

Without a breath.

“Hey, Mom, I locked the door. I have my homework. I ate my breakfast. The bus will be here in ten minutes. I wonder what we’ll have for lunch. I hate my social studies teacher. Football practice was awesome! You know how I told you about that kid, T. J.? Well, this is what I did last night….”

This makes me tired.

By now, I have walked to the front lobby of our building in order to ensure that my cell phone coverage will not be interrupted.

“Coach put the linemen in the backfield, just ‘cause we did such an awesome job on Saturday. He said he wanted to give us “a little love”. So, I’m standing back there, and Josh is about ten feet away, and Troy sails one….”

My head is in my hands, and I am breathing….

Listening and breathing….

“And, anyway, I think I got a good grade on my science test. I really feel pretty good about it. Oh,” Hey kitty”. My kitty’s here. Remember I told you about that kitty that sits with me until the bus comes? Well, she’s here. Wait….I’m gonna take a picture.”

Click.

I return to my desk and stand for several minutes in an effort to re-orient myself. The office phone rings several times, I put out several fires, and push back my chair, on my way to the water-cooler.

As I leave my office, I hear the ring that tells me I have a message.

The cat is long-haired, and calico, and though she apparently lives in my neighborhood and has a particular affinity for my son, I have never laid eyes on her before.

I show the picture to the resident cat-lover in our office whose 84 year-old eyes can’t quite make out the image. As I struggle to point it out, the phone in my hand rings, again.

“Ok, so it’s pretty cold out here, Mom. And, you know, there’s like no one else out here, so I just like put my hands in my pants. I mean, my hands were really cold and no one else could see. So I put them in there and they got warm, and so I took them out, and at the end of one of my hands was like this really LONG hair. And, I’m like “Oh, my God! Has it started already?” I mean this isn’t supposed to start now is it?”

The effort required to control my laughter silences me.

And, now, much softer, and much more insistent,

“Is it?”

Softly, persistant laughter infuses my voice as I assure us both.

“No, It’s ok. You’re ok.”

And, we are.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Knitting, through crochet…


We closed the store at noon everyday, for lunch.

As the microwave whirred, Pat hefted a large, bulky, canvas tote onto the formica table, and, in flawless imitation of a magician pulling endless, multi-hued scarves from his sleeve, removed a voluminous afghan, or a bulky sweater, or an impossibly long scarf; each, a work in progress.

Lunchtime conversation was punctuated by the sound of a crochet needle clicking against the precious metal of her wedding band, as she regaled us with stories of her errant children, their benevolent, well-loved, father, or her demanding, octogenarian mother-in-law. Her voice was soft, slow, and deeply, deeply southern, and no matter which direction the conversation took, she never dropped a stitch.

I watched, in fascination, for months, before asking her to teach me her art. As it turned out, she knew only one stitch, but one was better than none, and soon there were two bulging tote bags atop the table.

My first project, an afghan for my daughter, was fashioned from the softest yarn, in a variety of soft pastels. As soon as I had draped all ten feet of it over her modest twin bed, I began again. This time, I worked in primary colors; creating bold stripes. The yarn was thick, and difficult to work with, making the afghan tighter in weave, and much shorter in length. As I tied off the final stitch, I searched frantically for another piece of furniture to drape.

Harking back to my past, when my mother displayed my great-grandmother’s handiwork on the back of our olive-green, vinyl couch, I chose, this time, to work in rusts, and browns, and creams. Final placement on the back of our well-worn, herculon sofa was tricky, given the oblong shape my creation had taken, but, if anyone noticed, they never said a word.

And still, I stitched. My youngest son was graced with my largest effort, to date, in earth-tones of heather, khaki, blue, and white.

Two years later, as we gathered around the large, brilliantly lit, Frasier-fir in my parent’s living room, I watched as each of my family members opened the bulbous, carefully wrapped gift I had provided. One by one, they extracted an identical cream-colored throw. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, as, time and patience, had provided an opportunity to learn. Each recipient cooed, sweetly, over my efforts, and I absorbed their appreciation with the surety that none of them knew the import of what they held.

Six months later, I stood outside my sister’s apartment in anticipation of meeting my new nephew. As my brother-in-law opened the door, I was assaulted by a chic sea of white, accented by large-paned windows admitting smog-stained light.

My sister sat, indian-style, on a rambling white sectional. My eyes searched her lap for a look at the baby inside her blanket covered legs. Dark circles under weary eyes did nothing to deter the radiance of her smile as she scooped her son up, in offering.

It was when she moved, that I saw it; the only thing of color in the room. As she rose, it fell in waves, replacing her body on the seat. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, and she did know…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Knitting, through crochet…

>
We closed the store at noon everyday, for lunch.

As the microwave whirred, Pat hefted a large, bulky, canvas tote onto the formica table, and, in flawless imitation of a magician pulling endless, multi-hued scarves from his sleeve, removed a voluminous afghan, or a bulky sweater, or an impossibly long scarf; each, a work in progress.

Lunchtime conversation was punctuated by the sound of a crochet needle clicking against the precious metal of her wedding band, as she regaled us with stories of her errant children, their benevolent, well-loved, father, or her demanding, octogenarian mother-in-law. Her voice was soft, slow, and deeply, deeply southern, and no matter which direction the conversation took, she never dropped a stitch.

I watched, in fascination, for months, before asking her to teach me her art. As it turned out, she knew only one stitch, but one was better than none, and soon there were two bulging tote bags atop the table.

My first project, an afghan for my daughter, was fashioned from the softest yarn, in a variety of soft pastels. As soon as I had draped all ten feet of it over her modest twin bed, I began again. This time, I worked in primary colors; creating bold stripes. The yarn was thick, and difficult to work with, making the afghan tighter in weave, and much shorter in length. As I tied off the final stitch, I searched frantically for another piece of furniture to drape.

Harking back to my past, when my mother displayed my great-grandmother’s handiwork on the back of our olive-green, vinyl couch, I chose, this time, to work in rusts, and browns, and creams. Final placement on the back of our well-worn, herculon sofa was tricky, given the oblong shape my creation had taken, but, if anyone noticed, they never said a word.

And still, I stitched. My youngest son was graced with my largest effort, to date, in earth-tones of heather, khaki, blue, and white.

Two years later, as we gathered around the large, brilliantly lit, Frasier-fir in my parent’s living room, I watched as each of my family members opened the bulbous, carefully wrapped gift I had provided. One by one, they extracted an identical cream-colored throw. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, as, time and patience, had provided an opportunity to learn. Each recipient cooed, sweetly, over my efforts, and I absorbed their appreciation with the surety that none of them knew the import of what they held.

Six months later, I stood outside my sister’s apartment in anticipation of meeting my new nephew. As my brother-in-law opened the door, I was assaulted by a chic sea of white, accented by large-paned windows admitting smog-stained light.

My sister sat, indian-style, on a rambling white sectional. My eyes searched her lap for a look at the baby inside her blanket covered legs. Dark circles under weary eyes did nothing to deter the radiance of her smile as she scooped her son up, in offering.

It was when she moved, that I saw it; the only thing of color in the room. As she rose, it fell in waves, replacing her body on the seat. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, and she did know…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Library night

It might be library night…
I never really could keep up with it. Is it the same night, every week, or more a circumstance of convenience?

Yeah, it definitely could be library night…

The thought comforts me as my hand parts my hair 5 times before my head comes to rest in my palm, against the car window.
We probably wouldn’t be talking now, anyway…

I do so miss the talking.

And not even the talking, really, but all the little nuances built into talking;

the anticipation of talking,

that first, long, drawn-out “Heeeyy”, that rides out to meet me on the rush of a deep sigh,

oft-used phrases,

words that feel like you….

“Can I ask you a question?”
The smile that never ends, and the laughter.

Good laughter, long laughter, unadulterated, unexpected, and healing laughter.

I miss the joy in laughter.
For the first time in my life, I would rather talk than write. Writing, is after all, all about me. The places I can go are restricted by the confines of my mind, by my experience, by my hopes, and my dreams.
I miss the voice that gently took me places I had never thought to go, but, even more, I miss the wide-eyed enthusiasm as whole new worlds opened up to you through the doorways in my words.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net