"Intersection"

After all, it was a stone; a big piece of rock. It was a tough piece of old something that had hurled through the solar system a million years ago to find itself a dark glistening in the hands of a boy.

The boy was a ten year old freckled, curly red head. A seeker, a thinker, a step in the puddles boy – but only a boy.

The two, the stone and the boy, met on the bridge which spanned two hills over the highway. Mute, the bridge was the sturdy witness to the meeting.

And under the bridge, day after day, streams of vehicles flowed: The greens and reds, the rusted,the shiny new. From morning until night, their motors were afire with the urgent comings and goings of their occupants.

As each rounded the curve of road and went under the bridge, the boy watched and twirled the stone in his nimble fingers. He also watched the sun, the cloudless sky and the smooth motion of the journeying birds. And he watched the ceaseless movement of the cars occupied by people he didn’t know.

One easy pitch, like throwing a baseball across the dry school field as he had done so many times, was all it took. The stone left his fingers and twirled unevenly over the side of the bridge. Physics dictated that the stone picked up an enormous amount of speed along the way. Without looking back, he turned and headed home.

Just then, with no time to spare, the woman ignored the speed limit and dashed up the black, seamless ribbon. As she negotiated the curve and neared the bridge, the falling stone struck her windshield, broke it and was stopped short by her forehead.

The proverbial fates had conspired that day. The rock, the boy, the woman and the car all intersected at the same time and place.

Finally home, the boy played his video games, ate the snack left on the kitchen counter and waited.

After all, it was a stone; a big piece of rock. It was a tough piece of old something that had hurled through the solar system a million years ago to find itself a dark glistening in the hands of a boy.

And the boy would forever question why its trajectory should end with his no longer having a mother.

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Story by Pamela Tyree Griffin

Photograph by Jeremy Sharp

"Best Girl"

Mary guessed that now that he was married, he wouldn't be "hanging out" with her anymore.

Twirling around in her mind were the memories of Sunday dates spent on long drives, strolls through the park, going to the movies or passing time at the ice cream shop.

She knew that with a brand new wife and eventually a family, their dates would be a thing of the past. But one Sunday a month-was that too much to ask? One day out of thirty- too demanding on his time? Their time?

So lost in her reverie that she barely felt the moisture trickling down her face.

"You are acting like a big baby," she muttered to herself. "You knew it couldn't go on forever."

From a distance she heard a car horn. Then the phone rang and rang and finally the doorbell got her attention.

***********

When they were settled in their favorite booth, he took her hands into his own. "What happened? Did you forget what day it is?"

"I thought..."

"You thought I'd miss Sundays with my best girl? Not a chance - Grandma - not a chance!"

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Story by Pamela Tyree Griffin

Photo by Anissa Thompson

"Tough Love"

His siblings had already left home.

His mother continued to provide for him although each day she returned later and later. Once or twice he went hungry.

One day, when she didn't come back at all, he decided to take his empty stomach and leave. He took a running leap and stepped out into space.

At the last minute, when he began to struggle against his fall, he suddenly felt himself soar.

His mother watched as her little robin rode the breezes near the treetops.

At long last the nest was empty.

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Story by Pamela Tyree Griffin

Art by Dez Pain

"Fury"

Why me? I deserved this crap? What did I do? I tell you, I am beyond anger, beyond crying- I am all cried out.

Can you believe this?

Was all this really necessary?

Stuff tossed all over the yard - lawn chairs got thrown down the street. The doggone swing yanked right off the tree - you know it's been there since Grandpa hung it up there ten years ago.

And do not get me started on the damage to my car - it's beyond mere scratches. Total loss. I know it was already a rolling total but it was my rolling total. It ain't rolling anymore - that's for sure.

Do not get me started about the house. Doggone monster ran through it like it was made of paper.

I know it's not over yet. No it's not over.

How do I know? You can't be serious.

It's not over because the doggone weatherman says more is on the way.

And this one they're calling Kyle.

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Story by Pamela Tyree Griffin

photo by D. Finnell

"IF"

For David

(Aka: My Best Friend and The Best Husband In The World)

If I could,

I would grab a handful of sugar
to sprinkle along your path to
make it forever sweet.

If I could,

I would reach beyond the stars
and grab a galaxy
so you could call
the Universe your home.

If I could,

I would cup my beating heart
in my hands
so you could see how much
I love you.

If I could,

I would.

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Poem by Pamela Tyree Griffin

(previously published)

Photograph by Jos van Galen

"Alzheimer's"

(A Doctor Converses With A Patient)

It’s like erasing a picture of fruit on a table -
then trying to recreate it and being unable.
Little by little, like some hungry thing
it eats the stories you read or songs that you sing.

People visit that will seem to know you well
but who they might be, you’ll be helpless to tell.
You’ll look at what should be a familiar face-
understand it is one you’ll never place.

Today one may be a chef or a scholar.
Tomorrow one can’t tell a dime from a dollar.
You might stand on the porch completely nude
Unaware that you’ve become totally unscrewed.

Your family, despite promises made,
must put you away, your request disobeyed.
They feel guilty, they feel relieved.
it’s as if they are already bereaved.

That’s what I can tell you, it’s the truth unmasked
I hope it has answered the questions you’ve asked.
So go out and live life and do what you want.
Have a cigarette or take that long thought of jaunt.

I guess what it is I’m trying to say:
Do the things you want while you still have today.
And NO I don’t think your time has been wasted-
There’s nothing wrong with the life you have tasted

Mrs. Jones, I am sorry the news isn’t bright
But at least you have a kind of foresight.
What do I think you should do?
Whatever is important and has meaning for you.

There is one question you have not posed
So let me answer it before our session is closed:
Yes I will be here, right to the end.
Not just as your doctor but also your friend…

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Poem by Pamela Tyree Griffin

"By The Lake"

A winsome figure, she stood by the lake - a sentinel in the morning sun. Occasionally a fish popped to the surface only to dissapear in a splash of bubbles. Birds flittered through the canopy of trees and from somewhere she heard the baying of the cows in the adjacent fields.

This was her place. She fancied that she knew every stone, every blade of grass, every thing, living and not. Between them all, a special understanding existed. Unlike in the city, full of human vipers and evil, no harm had ever come to her here.

Here is where she came to evade the fumes, noise and endless streams of people in the city. Five more summers to go-five more summers before she could live by the water for good.

Shoes off, her feet sank into the mud as she curled and uncurled her small toes. She liked the feeling, the moist, the wet. So immersed in her own thoughts and the natural wonder that surrounded her, she neither heard nor saw the snake approach nor felt its stinging greeting.

She would not have to wait five more summers to stay here for good afterall.

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Story by Pamela Tyree Griffin

"Scandalous"

Photo courtesy of John Moore


It was the fifties and I was one of the bad girls. I'd gotten myself in a "family way" and had a baby without a husband. I could have ruined the football star's life. What was I thinking? (As if I'd made this baby all by myself.)

A girl didn't have babies without husbands then. We were sent away to have our children, to love them and then to let them go.

Let them go?

As if we had a choice. Nobody in their right mind would give away such a sweet, tiny, needy part of oneself. Would they? Gave them away? Please - it was NOT voluntary.

The plan was that we'd come home after spending a few months helping a fictitious sick aunt. I stuck to that story for thirty years.

Girls like me returned wearing our flat stomachs as if nothing at all had occurred.We came home, many of us, and finished school and went to college or to nice, safe jobs behind some cosmetics counter. Nobody was the wiser. Yet everyone knew the truth.

The precious boys, our partners in crime, no longer spoke to us. And families with whom we'd shared church pews for our entire lives, changed their seats. How our parents, shunned, endured the whispers I don't know.

I married, had more children and became the best mother I could be. I doted every scrap of attention and love I could muster on my "new" children as if in apology to the lost first.

We bad girls were told that in time we would forget the ones we "gave away". And we hoped that was true. But those babies - they had other ideas. They made sure we would never forget them.

Like a cancer within each of us, the lie grew. Those children we were made to give away - demanded our attention. Our betrayal manifested itself in illness, in suicide, in depression and a myriad of other awful ways.

The day we said goodbye to them was the day we said hello to a deep unnamed longing seared forever in our very souls...

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Story by Pamela Tyree Griffin

Photo/Art by John Wisbey

Inspired By The Book The Girls Who Went Away (c) by Ann Fessler

"The Hummingbird"

The humingbird has a secret
but what it will not say -
as in all its fluttering glory
it goes about the day.

About tomorrow, it doesn't worry
only sustenance on its mind.
And in an endless flurry
seeks all that it can find.

Should we humans emulate
this tiny focused one
and immediate needs satiate
beneath the shining sun?

The answer? Truly I don't know
and suppose I never will.
I just accept the ebb and flow
of life to drink my fill.

poem by Pamela Tyree Griffin

PS. My latest story, "MISHA" story is in ken*again, the literary magazine. Click HERE to read.

"This Now Belongs To You"

Before it happens you are the soul of delighted anticipation.

Then your being is hurling toward some unknown tomorrow and you think you can, if you make it through this, handle anything.

There is the unequivocal terror of course. Then the considerable and insistent pain arrives regardless of what they have told you.

And your body turns against you. The body you have known your entire life - that which is completely you - begins a complex ritual of changing into something else.

You are at once confused, excited, and filled with an urge to turn around and run back up the path you have made in the deep parts of yourself. Yet you know you can't turn back.

This can continue for minutes, hours or days. You may feel light, like a twirling tiny dust mite. You may feel heavy like a rock bound in chains. But when it is done, you feel nothing but a joy you can't describe.

And then you hold your baby - forced out of your self and onto this earthly plain, he now belongs to you.

Now the real duty and everlasting beauty of life begins and you are no longer as certain as you were before, that you can handle anything.

You will do well just to handle this tiny person who knows only that you are the bringer of love, of sustenance and of life...

As overwhelmed as you feel at this moment, you are grateful to the universe which made you, even as you have made this tiny light; the glow of which lights your very soul.

Now you are filled with a certain joy and you can scarce believe your good fortune.

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Story by Pamela Tyree Griffin

Originally Published by the Terrific Cat's Meow for Writers and Readers Ezine