How full is your glass?  jk cosmos

One wonders about that question, more often than first surmised.  How can anyone not think about the haves and have-nots?  How can we work, play and pair off and not think about our sister, brother, friend, lover, cousin?  

Being grateful for others and for ‘What I love best ‘things.’ usually spins one’s mind to someone else’s newer, cooler car or home or furnishings or pool, doesn’t it?

How full is your glass?  Very much full, thank you.  It’s full as long as one breathes and has the opportunities to transform one’s life from “this” to “that”.

The full glass - empty glass conundrum holds quite a few mixed up responses; those that we inherit and those we learn and respond to.  How should this concept be handled?

Glass full - glass empty, how do we view our lives?  I think that I’m a half-full kinda person and that is due to experience of life throwing so much shit at me that the decision had to be made, kinda quickly and kinda off-the-cuff.

What is that shit, you ask.  It’s about marriage.  It’s a story and it’s not happily-ever-after.  It’s a reality that kicks a person in the shins and then, smiling, kicks a person squarely on the jaw.

Marriage, wedding plans and romance, kisses and passion, sex in the rawest and most carnal way - all of it.  Yes, please.

I’ll give away my power and my control over myself.  I’ll give away my true self to accommodate your needs.  I’ll give away my goals and desires to please you.  All of that, surviving that compels me to answer - Yes, I am a full glass kinda person.  Yes, I am.

Thirty-five, not too old, but not a time in a life to play the blushing bride.  No, that has passed and the good fortune is finding a guy to marry and plan a life with.  What a cock-eyed optimist!  The reality is that handing over control of one’s own, wonderful life may, just may, end in a not so lovely ending.  And that is exactly how it played out.  Not a lovely ending.

What is that ending?  What is the beginning?  Let me tell you, the story begins with a wedding. The bride glowing and happily smiling at her guests and her groom. The bride, oh so happy, in her white, satin gown.  White satin pumps, white satin covered buttons along the back of her fitted, bridal dress. The bride, wearing a crown of entwined flowers, polished with a high gloss of white; tulle attached to form a lengthy flow of veil to the floor.  The bride, perfection in her traditional, bridal clothing.

The groom tolerating the festivities and looking for his guys, to smoke and to snort a bit of coke to take the edge off. Her handsome groom, the black tuxedo offset by his locks of golden, quite long curly hair.  How handsome?  What a lucky girl she was!  

The Bride and Groom walked from the Ritz over to the area near the Swans; near the summery flower beds of the Boston Gardens.  The bridesmaids and groomsmen followed along as she tried to talk with the groom.  He was looking down at the path and did not respond to her chatter.  She slowed her steps and took to walking the rest of the way with her bridal party; they were chatting and glad to be in the sunshine, in their formal attire on this glorious day.  

Photos taken, maneuvering posing and smiling, she was not herself.  The Bride was trying to be in the moment, and yet, she felt this was stepping into something that was not quite right.  Her apprehension was not the first time that she ‘paused’ to question her saying ‘Yes, I’ll marry you.” to the beautiful man nearby.  Not next to her, not holding her hand - just nearby.

Walking back to the Ritz, he took her hand, sensing her aloneness?  She didn’t know.

*************************

The end of the reception and they entered an upstairs suite at the Boston Ritz, above the grand ballroom and alone, at last, behind closed doors.  She primped, taking only a brief time and waited for her new husband to join her in the master bedroom suite.  Overlooking the Boston Gardens, the formalized blooms and ground cover, a historic setting, at the corner of Newbury Street.  The elegance of the area  and the high-brow reception, more than she had ever hoped for.

He followed her to the bedroom, still in his tux, and grabbed her neck; twisting her skin until the tautness of his hold on that thin and vulnerable skin bore down on her.  She didn’t speak, she didn’t scream; he held her.  A prelude to passion?  If only.  It was not a prelude to passion, but to a nightmare and terror, while wide awake.  Her groom had plans for her that were unimaginable, and very cruel.

In her head, she screamed at the unfairness; this trick of the Fates. Her negligee was thin, transparent and so sheer that her skin and the throbbing of her blood through her veins, all visible.  He knew her vulnerability and was empowered.

“Let me teach you how to defend yourself.  You need to be able to defend yourself, when I’m not around.”  Vicious words, serpent tongue.  

‘AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH’…..in her head, in her mind.

He reached, with his free hand to his case, took a pistol out and put it in her trembling hand; the pistol fit her hand and he put his hand over hers. She felt the cold, hard grip of the handgun. His eyes, blue and cold and did she hear that verse in her head.  Yes, she was hearing the words - something about the devil on the other side of the door, that handsome devil in tight jeans - just at the other side of the door.  In her case, he was standing beside her.  She shivered.

“ Let’s see now how this works.  Let’s see how you are going to defend yourself.

The safety is off.  The gun is easy to handle, yes?”  “Yes.”

“Notice, my darling, that there is no number on the gun.  I got it from a cop friend of mine, and the numbers were pretty expertly rubbed off.  Hmmmm.”  

“See, here.”  

She did not answer.  She could barely remain conscious.  She wished this was a dream.  

“What do you think would happen, if there was an accident and you shot yourself?

She didn’t respond.  “Any thoughts, darling.”

As quickly as he had produced the pistol, it was gone.

He laughed, picked her up and threw her down on the bed; their first night as husband and wife.  His intentions to take full control.  His intentions to demand respect as the Master of the house.

He took her in that master suite and he showed her what it is to be degraded, to be used, and to be spent.  Horrified, fear dulling her mind, she complied.  And, she started planning her escape.

The ‘how of it’ and the plan to run not formulated; her desire to not be connected to this devil.  This man, whom she had married before he had revealed his true self.  She wondered if she murdered him; could she escape and maintain freedom or end up being prosecuted and convicted, without time to truly run. Beyond killing, what were her options?

Why would she have to run from her life; beyond escaping him?  Why should she?

**********************

In the morning, he went about his morning routine and barely glanced at his frightened bride.  She managed to dress and pack; they were leaving Logan for Paris at noon. The secrets between men and women; the reveal and the conceal.  Her heart beat faster than ever and she was compelled to plan an escape that would be final.  Something to free her and leave no options for him to return.  Murder, frame up for his conviction of her murder?  How do people plan and actually do anything to be free from capture?  She didn’t know and her mind spun.  She must calm her mind and be still.  Could she be still?  She was not so certain, but knew continuing with a man able to hold a gun to her temple and indicate that he alone was Master, was a dangerous place to be.  

And then, she had figured out that only her fingerprints were on that pistol and so, another piece to deal with and change in her favor.

****************

Paris, city of light - of love.  They checked into a small hotel, close to L’Opera and quaint, lovely.  She did the unpacking, as he returned to the pub area in the lower level to play pool and drink brandy, expensive brandy.  She began to lose control and cry, then sob a bit too loudly.  Stop.  Crying will turn him on and only encourage his cruelty.  She thought about that pistol and wondered if he had brought it through customs to Paris.  Possibly not.  She hadn’t found it in the luggage, but her fears took over her usual commonsensibilties. Fear immobilizing her to do only what he demanded.  

She left the hotel and found a cafe just to the right of the Opera and felt some relief to be out and about without him and in public.  Safety in numbers and visible. How her longing to be seen magnified and held her.  She decided to walk to the Jardin du Tuileries;  similar to her beloved Boston Gardens.  Sitting in a light green, metal chair near the pond with a view of the flower gardens and symmetry of the setting, she smiled.  Paris, a parallel city to Boston, in her estimation.  Ah, to breathe.  

Thinking about leaving him had to be her focus, not the aesthetics of the gardens.  How to leave?  How to disconnect forever?  Formulation of a realistic plan in a foreign country would not be as simple or straight-forward as she hoped. And yet, language barriers and mistaken communication may work in her favor.  She jumped off the chair and fast walked back to the hotel, not noticing a young, slim man with ripped jeans and a blue scarf wrapped ‘round him was following her, keeping the clip and a certain space between them. She was waiting to cross La Rue de St. Germaine and in the crowd, oblivious to her surroundings.  The Frenchman bumped her side, apologized and smiled.  His slim face and aquiline nose, his piercing blue eyes and relaxed slouch engaged her for a New York minute.  Light changed, people crossing and she moved with the crowd.  He moved with her.  Again, a bump and an apology.  

“Was he trying to pick her up?”  

He was in step and asked her if she was from the States.  

“Yes.” smile.

“I would love to visit the States.”  “Where would you suggest I see first?”

“What?”  She had to focus and get back to her husband and figure out a way to leave.

“Nescafe?”  “Come and tell me about your home?”  Smile.

She thought about being in the room with her husband or extending this reprieve a bit more in public, in Paris, with an attractive man.  

“Fine.  Nescafe.”  She answered and he lead as she fell in step and they found a cafe.

Sitting outside, he ordered and turned to her, still smiling.  They sat on either side of a cafe table and there were so many people around that she felt safe.  Safe enough.

“What do you want to know?”

“ I want to know about you.  I want to know more about what makes you smile. What makes you glad to be alive.  Who you truly are..is what I want to know.”

Tearing and feeling her lips quiver, unsure how to answer.  An unknown, a man without a name in a foreign country, how convenient that she stopped.  Time stopped.

“I am not glad to be alive.  My husband is threatening me and I’m sure that he’s going to kill me.  Not this day, perhaps, but soon enough.  He’ll make it look like an accident. He forced me to hold a pistol and my fingerprints are on it.  He’s threatened me.  I am so afraid, I’m scared that he’ll kill me. I am so afraid.  I’m frozen and unable to do anything. I am unable to think. I am not able to smile.  I am not able to do anything at all.”

“You should stand up and leave.”

I am so not in my right mind.  “Please stand up and leave.”

He sipped his nescafe cautiously and pensive, not moving and thoughtful.  He placed the cup on its saucer deliberately and slowly.  She caught her breath and began to normalize herself and her breathing and being in the moment.  She didn’t blink.

“Drink your cafe.  Finish and come.  You cannot live like this.”

“Allright.”

They finished and stood.  She was very unsure of what would be next and of course, had no idea who this man was.  She was ready to follow to him.  She was compelled.

They briskly walked down a narrow street, abutting the cafe.  She kept up with him and they turned a few times, to an area that was more French than tourist-based.  He ducked into a  tiny shop.  She saw glassware and miniature souvenirs, racks of postcards and on the side spices and supplies for baking; speciality pans and decorative equipment.

“My parents’ shoppe.  Let’s go in the back.”

She nodded in agreement.  They sat on small, wooden chairs in the back, leaning on the side wall with a tiny table nearby, covered with papers, pencils and calculator, post-its...a well-used back area.

“Shall I introduce myself?”

“Yes.  Sorry, I should have asked.  Sorry, I am so sorry to have told you what I did.”

“I’m Andre.  Don’t worry.  I believe that everything happens for a reason.  Let’s talk about your husband and what has happened just before you left Boston to come here.”

She told him, with as much detail as she thought he’d be able to take; leaving out the sexual maneuvering and sadistic exploits she had endured.

She did escape.  This narrative ends well in that regard.  And life, life is always a twist, a possibility - a life force.

The great news, yes, the superlative is intentional, is that the lesson learned is to be half-full and appreciative of life, of love, of family and friends, of lovers and colleagues.  They love and appreciate you, without conditions and without requiring the chipping away of one’s true self.

The half-full and “love & light” persona is not only one that is developed, it’s groomed and nurtured and a gift.  The gift to oneself - the affirmation of love to oneself is everything.

Half full is a quite wonderful place to be and the energy reverberating is proof, simple and direct.  Be grateful, be authentic and see life as half-full.

Lifting a glass of wine and feeling the liquid on her tongue, expressing the physicality of the sip, the twirl and the taste.  Life most certainly is half full.

Love - jk cosmos (writing group prompt)

Love - jk cosmos

He met me at the airport, greeting me as I stepped off and into his arms.  Harris was the most passionate man and lover.  How could I not love him?  How could any woman refuse him? I met him in a cafe in Athens on a boulevard near King George Hotel, at a time of upheaval in Greece.  The conversation turned to love and life and the ‘what ifs?’.  I fell hard and most of my plans were rearranged to be with him.  Greatist love?  Certainly greatest passion.

Stepping off the plane, I felt something else, and certainly not love.  Looking at his smiling eyes, and admiring his handsome face, masculine face; masculine everything.  I was embarrassed and turned to Mario and turned to my true and beautiful romantic love.  The man I met on Skathios in the airport and the one where there was such a magnetic and compelling pull; an energy and total understanding.  Love is more than the passion, isn’t it?  I knew that physicality was important and held his tender, generous love close to my heart.  I said ‘Yes.’ when he asked me to marry him; Harris - that is.  Yes, after three brief weeks of being together, he brought me to his family; to meet his family and it was all quite wonderful; a happy, joyous time. Harris was kind, hmm, I said that, didn’t I?

Mario, the guy, the love, the one that held the world and life in such a similar way, that I truly and totally fell in love.  Love, a concept about more than one or another level of affection?  Of passion?  What, exactly, is that one true love?  I have considered so many variables, so many features and definitions of love.  He, too, had large brown eyes, and curly, soft long brown hair; dark brown, mahogany brown with tendrils falling beyond his collar. Beyond, his broad shoulders and most amazing energy, beyond his tall and slender build, Mario had a warmth and kindness and gentleness that was magic.  He was very intelligent and talking with him went beyond a conversation; it was a knowing and a similar view of what is important. He was gorgeous!

What can I do about Harris?  And how to let Harris know that I will not be marrying him? It’s not possible to marry and live a life together, when I have fallen in love with someone else. It’s unimaginable to love this lovely man, when my soul and very being must be with Mario.  

And so, I kissed Harris and I knew it was over between us.  I kissed Harris, and I felt Mario’s gaze upon me, a gaze of understanding and of love.  I kissed Harris and we left the airport; it was the beginning of an unraveling between us.  Harris knew, or should have known.  I wonder still if that kiss betrayed my change of heart.  Harris and I continued and we went along together for a few days only. I decided to return to the States and I promised to plan a meeting with Mario. And yet, I  hadn’t altogether broken it off with Harris.

Mario had been open and insistent; both - at the same time and I knew that I would be making plans to visit him in Swaziland, South Africa - his home.  I also knew and felt a secure and laid-back energy, a warmth of love that was between us.  I was confident that we would marry and welcomed being with him for the rest of my life.

Home, and my closest and most lovely and loved confidant, my father, agreed that I must go and visit Mario in Swaziland.  Relief and a renewed knowing of gong to him and being with him; and my father had been open to that possibility and approved.  There was no impediment; I started to plan my transfer of business to someone else, so I could leave.  I spoke with Mario, long and yes, expensive conversations.  We were in agreement.  We were in love.

And then, my father died.  He suddenly and quite unexpectedly had a heart attack and died.  He was not old, he was my best friend in the world.  He was my co-conspirator, supporting my leaving to go to my love, my Mario.  

My father’s death most certainly delayed my plans to reunite with Mario.  And, then, as people say - life goes on.  I never made that trip.  I spoke with Mario often enough for the following few months and then I married someone else.  Mario called, sometimes, and we spoke for hours.  I knew that I had made a most terrible mistake.

When my marriage ended, Mario offered to come to the States, to be with me and my sons.  To renew our love, in person, in real life and real time and without any illusions.  I wanted him to come and to be with me and my young sons.  I cried so many days and nights about the loss of our chance to be together.  I was already in the fight of my life, a custody battle with my former husband that took over any chance of happiness.  After, most likely, too much thought, I asked Mario not to come to the States as I might lose my children.  He deferred his trip, he agreed to my request.  I loved him even more.

He married after meeting a Dutch woman on a cruise.  They have twin daughters and Mario and I lost touch.  I think of him and I love him.  I regret not letting him come to help me, to love me and to heal my soul with his love.

I think of Harris, the man I had agreed to marry and wonder if he thinks of me.  Does he think of me as someone who betrayed him or someone that truly let him go for reasons beyond both of us?  I wonder even more so about Mario and if he’s had a joyful, loving life.  I hope so and I sometimes think that I should plan a trip to Swaziland and go there to see.  I should go to see his life in a country too foreign, but so beautiful, a country that my father told me to experience before he died.  One that I should experience before I die.

I am now beyond middle-aged.  I am now nearer the end of my life than the beginning or the middle and I am trying to think about what makes me happy and where my love is.  I have loving sons and I love them dearly; but not that long ago, I had a choice to go to Swaziland and marry a man who loved me and to a life that would have been quite different than the one I have lived.

There was a moment in time, when I fell in love with a man with brown eyes and a gentle soul and I am grateful; very grateful to know love.

Love in Many Forms - Love/Hate with many Faces! - jk cosmos

Having found the personal items to bring to her Godmother, Jillian continued to look around.  She was curious about this woman and her life.  Having agreed to take responsibility for major decisions, she tried to find clues in the apartment to help her discover the woman’s personality and if she was lucky a clue as to her wishes.  Jillian did look through a small antique desk on one side of the bedroom.  A desk used, it looked like, primarily for keeping papers.  On the side of a small drawer there was sliding piece of ornate engraved wood.  Jillian slid it over.  It seemed fragile, much like its owner. Inside the compartment, she found an inexpensive black and white notebook.  The type that has always been found in five and dime stores and now at the office supply stores.

            Perhaps, something of interest or something leading to a sense of her ward would be found.  She began to read.  There were some descriptive passages of days on the beach and some short character or personal bits about friends or people that were of interest.  Then she began to read a passage that was alarming.  The passage gave a hint of the older woman’s experience.  Jillian had no inkling of such a dire and purposeful cloud affecting this dear woman.  She began again to read the passage.

“Fear, I wouldn’t have imagined the coldness and immobility of being fearful. How could the love turn around so quickly with such violence?
            The courting and romancing ended at the wedding ceremony. My husband was rude and curt at the reception with me and the guests. His only focus was getting high with a few of his friends. My groom was handsome, blonde, blue eyes and tall. He was so perfect on paper.  He was also a ‘coke-head’ and a ‘stoner’.
            My recollection was of moving around the ballroom and greeting our guests, alone. I am alone, again despite the marrying part. I am holding up the beautiful satin train of my gown, and stepping lightly in the most elegant heeled close-toed shoes, the step with the shoes feeling like royalty and changing the walk to more of a glide. How lovely the movement in the gown and with the shoes.  I was in a light satin gown with hand-sewn beaded work on the bodice and crown-piece, which held the yards of translucent cream material.
            The music played a soft jazz selection and the wait-staff move through the ballroom, hinting at the possibilities of happiness, the kind in a lifetime movie feature. And yet, I knew in my heart that the trimmings and the planning for the wedding wouldn’t make it all wonderful. The Groom remained a nasty person, someone without dignity and certainly someone without any respect or love for me.  He was outside of the reception hall for longer than any of the guests and he was missing for the cake-cutting until it was a miserable situation for both families.
            The childish dreams of my wedding day crushed in a moment. His focus remains the drugs and the coke up his nose so much more important than making a commitment to each other. So, why am I continuing with this farce? And, why am I covering up his bad behavior at the wedding and reception with our friends. I think that I can make it better. I know that I can help him be the best person possible. I am so naïve that I believe that I can get him into recovery and back to the loving person that he seems to want to be.  Seems to want to be, or is it the part of holding out the conditional love?  Or is it the part of wanting to be happy?  Or is the part of being the power couple?  It is unclear to me, now and then.
            The reality, as I now know, is that a person delving into the drug scene is not going to work to get away from the ‘high’. The person drugging and partying is committed to a lifestyle and not going to leave it behind to be ‘straight’.
            I dream of an alternative life, one of love and joy! I realize that my reality is one of fear, drugs, waste and anger. My husband works when it suits him for money for his habit, not for us. I work to pay the bills and to keep the household going. I resent him.
            The resentment turns to pure hatred. I wish that he would not come home. It becomes a mantra, please may he not come home.  It becomes a prayer, so constant that the hum of it blends into an energy.  I wish so hard that he will stay away from me. He is a lousy, selfish lover. He is a childish husband. He is not a friend. In fact, as the days wear on, he is my enemy. He is pure evil.
            My wandering thoughts meander to other women’s marriages. How many young women are covering up for the bad behavior of their handsome and childish husbands? I keep wondering about other women’s lives and I think that perhaps there are many of us that suffer. Suffering in silence was not part of the bargain. I would never imagine becoming ‘that suffering, victimized woman’.  The lack of courage to leave or have him leave is a back-breaking, tiring burden.  How many of us in the city, in the country, continue to try to keep the marriage long after it is over.  Perhaps, long after the realization that it didn’t begin.

Thinking about this time in my life is another hurt, a moment of trying to remember, while trying to forget.  The plight of women in flux, the plight of many brides wondering what happened.
            One night I ask him something about what he’d like for dinner. He lashes out at me and throws my childhood glass bank across the room at me. It misses my head. I flinch and it hits the wall, breaking. My childhood piggy bank, the one with the bluish tinge of old glass is shattered against the wall and onto the kitchen floor. Perhaps, I should have stayed at work. Perhaps, I should stay away to avoid these confrontations. I am crying and leave the room, so not to be in his way. I leave the room, but not the house to stay out of danger’s way. My husband is the danger. Why didn’t I know?
            That night, as I lay in bed, my husband comes into the room and turns on the overhead light. Then he turns on the bed lamp and finds his pistol in his night stand. He loads the pistol and tells me to get up out of the bed. He says that he wants to show me how to use the gun so that I can defend myself, just in case someone breaks into the house. He takes the gun and pulls me out of the bed. He is trying to place the gun in my hand. I refuse and tell him we can look at the gun tomorrow. He insists.  He places the pistol in my hand.  His hand is gripping the pistol, while my hand is beneath his, hurting from the hard pressure.

            I am standing next to the bed in my nightgown, naked underneath and feeling vulnerable. I am so vulnerable that it feels like a dream. My husband pulls me around so that my back is against his chest. He holds that gun in one hand over my shoulder. He is showing me the open gun so that I can see the bullets, up close. I would think that I should be shaking, but I am resigned to having a crazy, drug-ridden husband. He keeps saying that he just wants to show me. He presses my fingers around the butt of the gun. Actually, it’s a pistol, he corrects my misinformation. He tells me in my ear, slow and hushed that he found the gun and rubbed off the numbers of this pistol, just for me. He tells me that it’s called a ‘throw-away’. It is an untraceable weapon.  I feel his sour breathe on my hair, near my ear.  I am unable to pull away.  I am immobilized by fear.
            A ‘throw-away’ pistol in our bedroom and he has me around the neck. He has me in a position where my fingerprints are on the gun. If I am shot, he will tell the police that I shot myself, that I was depressed. Not far from the truth, a half-truth, as I am depressed having married this horrible man. He has manipulated the facts, but then again, the truth may be that he has manipulated me. I am the successful one with the beautiful home, and he is not.  I am the person with the skill and the reputation in the profession, and he has nothing. He is a joke and not skilled at all.  He has, though, successfully latched on to me. 
            I do not have the will to live, let alone to love anyone. I am not able to think clearly and I have no reason to get through my day. I am lonely and alone. I am sick and I am bone-weary and tired of living.
            Fear, the fear becomes a reality later in the marriage. The fear and aloneness is something that builds up over time and once in my life settles in so that I feel that I can never survive. If I survive, will I ever feel joy? If I survive, will I wish that I didn’t and wish that the gun did go off that night?
            This sounds like such a sad story of a very sad woman.
            This could be that story, but it is not. This is story of a woman, who could have given up and allowed her husband to survive and destroy her. It is my story. It is my story, and it is one of a courageous woman, who remained determined to live and to find joy. I think that my story is not as unique as I once thought it was and that my story is one that many women experience. Perhaps, some of the details vary. However, the theme and the feelings are common and I would like to tell it all, now.  I am ready to tell the full story, not the abridged version. 

This is how it how it all began.”

Jillian placed the notebook on the bed, near her and thought about the consequences of the wedding and the events that followed.  She began to wonder about the Groom.  What happened to her husband?  What was his name?  What became of him? 

Jillian decided to ask the lawyer when she next met with him.  She jotted down a note to herself, so as not to forget in the managed appointment.  Lawyers like to control meetings and she had discovered that he was one of those people who had his own agenda and then perfunctorily dismissed whoever else was in the room, when he was satisfied.  He was collegial only when he required her signature or something done to move one step closer to closing out the case.

 

 

Love by the Sea

Creative Writing –Fiction

Kate wasn’t looking forward to this next birthday and dreaded the day that was fast approaching. Her life goals seemed to be unattainable if life continued to play fast and easy without real success. She could barely start her day and moved slow and steady without too much thought.
Patrick called as she readied herself for a Court pretrial hearing at the District Court. She was late and Patrick told her that he wanted to take her out for her birthday. He’d pick her up tonight at seven. He told her he’d take care of everything and to just be ready to go.
Kate wanted to feel happy and knew he was trying to please her. She just couldn’t. Thinking about criminals would distract her and she took off.
The Hearing was a basic ‘Show Cause’ with only one police officer testifying to preliminary matters that sometimes make or break a case. Kate’s client sat next to her and he was preoccupied with the legal yellow pad that she gave him and pen for him to jot down questions and any thought he might have about the case. This technique of having clients ‘help out’ worked well and gave her a break from answering their questions when she should be concentrating on testimony being given. Kate had many strategies to keep her clients under control, similar to those she used to keep the cops under control. Both having similar high energy and continual needs for attention, it seemed to Kate that some of the busy work she gave the cops and now the defendants were similar to those for small children. That did make her smile.
The day passed without incident and without much fanfare about her birthday. A few phone calls of congrats and that she was able to handle.
Seven and Patrick was knocking on the door ready to enjoy some time with her on this propitious day. She was dressed and ready but still glum.
He had a small a package with him, wrapped in newspaper and tied with a plain string. How did she feel?
“Happy Birthday! Come on, thirty isn’t so bad.”
He said it out loud, thirty, and she cringed. How fast the year had passed. Being twenty-nine had made her sad and she dreaded this one all year long.
Kate sat on the edge of the sofa and opened the package. Patrick sat next to her and waited, expectantly.
She breathed out thanking him. It was a seagull on a canvas reminding her of Americana but actually nicely detailed. The scene was framed with rough wood and a white line of thin paint on the border. The seagull had the wing-spread and was in air. Most of the painting was of the seagull, not the background sky. Kate loved it. She thought of a book she had read about freedom and life from the perspective of a seagull. “Hmmm, what was the title of that book about a seagull?” Patrick didn’t know. He wasn’t much into reading fiction. He read philosophy books and used the logic to win and strategize his defense of his clients. He was writing a book, but still didn’t like fiction or anything contemporary.
“Let’s go! Are you ready?”
“Thank you for the lovely gift. Thank you, Patrick. I love it.”
They left Cambridge and drove north. Kate wasn’t sure where he was planning to go and just let the air and the movement of the driving taker her away from her darker thoughts. Her mind kept wandering to past days with Jack. How would she be celebrating this day with Jack? She had to let it go and she had to let him go. The last gift that Jack had given her was a paper parasol. It was huge and had a hand-painted flower on it. What would she possibly do with a parasol? She recalled thinking that Jack was so unconventional in some ways. He’d been so happy to give it to her and he had not inkling really on what she would do with it. They had both laughed and Jack wanted her to open it and walk with him up Mass Ave under the parasol. What a crazy idea!
Earth to Kate! Patrick was saying something to her. She hadn’t heard him, the actual words escaped her. He was smiling broadly, so she returned the smile and wondered.
He took her to a place on the north shore that had a secret gate and they walked through a pathway that seemed to be private, but he assured her that it was not. At the end of the path was a small gate that filled an archway. Ivy covered most of the opening. On a closer look, Kate could see through to the ocean. They both saw the ocean in its more active and waves crashing nature. Kate loved it. The temperament of the ocean banging against the rocks mirrored her feelings. She and Patrick crossed through the gate and they were against the rocks on a ledge that went nowhere. They were close up against the rocks looking out to the sea and looking down to the crashing waves. Her spirit soared. Patrick knew her, after all. What joy!
Patrick leaned on her and began to search for her and she was overcome with passion for life and for him. They stood against the wall of boulders and they made love.