Tiny Stories

I gasp as I open the magazine - a gift from a friend - its plastic wrap carefully removed this time. It’s been sitting on the kitchen bench for a couple of days now, waiting for a space, a time to unfurl when the monotony of life needs to be banished. My gasp turns to palpable excitement, as the face of a woman I know graces the page.  It is Noline, and memories flood through my brain, simultaneously vague but strong. I am ready to read, but I change tack, flicking a message to her: “OMG Nols, I’ve just seen it,” my delight heightened by the discovery on a dull grey Sunday morning. Jumping online, I send a message to The Kids, a tiny group of four, my sons and their gorgeous and talented girlfriends. Sharing this news right now is important, a thread that runs through all our lives, defining who we are. When my oldest son explains she is “the principal” I say that is not enough to describe a woman that is such a force of nature.  She was a co-conspirator, mentor, and friend, I tell the

She asks us to write, as we sit alone in our kitchens, our bedrooms, our cupboards, the glow of others’ laptops beaming through our screens. I shuffle, I stand, I adjust the lighting, not sure that I like what I see reflected in the glass tonight. It’s been a tough day, and I am bruised, deeply. The irony strikes me like the freight trains I hear at night when the prevailing wind blows. My kindness, my diligence, my attempt to support others’ well-being has ended in my own being irreparably damaged. The world is hurting right now, so I am right at home with millions of others, just when I thought I was immune. Let me tell you about marriage. This is our prompt from the gentle woman who is leading the creative writing webinar. “Just let it flow,” she says, as my pencil hovers above the untidy scribbles on the page. I cannot write about marriage. There is nothing in my head, nothing of value. For who am I to tell you about marriage, a woman without a husband? I feel disingenuous, a phony