Fridays at First Day: Living Life Like a Facebook Movie

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Living Life Like a Facebook Movie

We all know full well that Facebook never tells the whole story. No one does. We pick and choose what we post (and read) for a desired result or response. We share the good and rarely the bad.

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Fridays at First Day: A Prayer for the Tragedy at Columbia Mall

I am honestly still reeling from the news that there was a shooting at the Mall in Columbia last Saturday.  It really does feel differently when something like this happens in a place where you have been, where you go often and definitely without ever thinking twice.  My husband has been to the mall since the incident.  It is often where he heads for lunch during the workday.  He said there were noticeably fewer people there and a somber mood.  I hope things never go back to normal at the mall.  I hope they get better than that.

A Prayer for the Tragedy at Columbia Mall

My personal fear is that incidents like the recent gun violence at the mall will drive people away from God and that the world might become a darker place yet. I understand that it can seem impossible to find God in such a mess. My hope, though, is that instead of turning away from God when such things happen, people will look to God for answers. God is always good.

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She Shook My Hand

Peas.  I was feeding him peas.  Paw prints.  There were blue paw prints on his bib.  The rest was a blur.  A blur of brown sweaters dotted with dancing glasses filled deep with red wine.  The house was warm, cozy, I guess, and swimming in a din I did not discern.  All I could see was my very young son in a very old high chair eating chunky baby food.  All I could hear was everyone else enjoying themselves.

"Shaun and his new girlfriend are here."  My husband's voice snapped my glazed eyes into focus and I turned my head toward him.  He looked so good in a fresh cranberry pullover and dark blue jeans.  I needed to go shopping.  I had nothing nice to wear.

I returned my attention to the pureed peas.  My cousin always had someone new to show off during the holidays.  I was not particularly amused and I pretended my interest was not piqued.  When they finally entered the kitchen for introductions, I leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs and casually waved the baby spoon.   

"Hi, I'm Lindsey!" She was impossibly tiny and tan, busty and blonde.

"Hi."  My eyes met hers.  They were blue, too.

After a rush of pleasantries flush with compliments, the air settled and I could smell the peas, again.  My husband leaned in close and whispered, "What was her name?"

"I already forget.  It's not like we will need to remember.  He'll bring someone else to Christmas."

* * * * *

Peaches.  I was feeding him peaches.  Snowflakes.  There were gray snowflakes on his bib.  I was sitting near the radiator and could feel both its warmth and the draft from the window.  My hands were cold.  The radio had just begun to play "White Christmas" when the phone rang.  It was my dad.  

"Sweetie, I have some terrible news.  Shaun and Lindsey were in a car accident."

"Lindsey?"

"Shaun's new girlfriend.  You met her on Thanksgiving."  My dad paused, probably displeased.

"I remember her, of course."

"Shaun is fine, well, he is not hurt, but Lindsey...they flew Lindsey to Shock Trauma.  She is in a coma."

My mind reeled in rewind, replaying that one moment I met her.  Her hair was in a bun.  She put her arm around my cousin.  She kissed my baby on the head.  She shook my hand.  She smiled.  Her eyes were blue.

"They were on their way to Aunt Sherry's for dinner or something.  It was last night, when it was raining.  Shaun was driving his truck.  It happened on Highland Parkway and Front Street."

I couldn't process what he was saying.  I shook my head to make sense of the words.  He was driving.  She might die.  But, I would never forget Lindsey's name now.

"Where?"

"On Highland, in front of the Dunkin' Donuts."

From that day forward, every time I drove past that street corner, I thought of her.

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This piece is a work of fiction loosely based on a true story and written in response to a weekly writing prompt.  Four and a half years ago, my cousin and his new girlfriend were in a car accident.  The real life Lindsey is alive and well, but I am unclear how well she is.  All I know was that her head injury was severe and her recovery process long.  She and my cousin did not remain together.

Mr. Mel

I first noticed the gold limousine when I stuck my nose out front to judge that morning's weather.  Initially, I thought perhaps Mr. Mel, the older man who lives across the street, had treated himself to a Groupon and was going to be chauffeured all around Baltimore like a king just for kicks.  But soon, unfamiliar figures arrived, lining their cars behind the limo. They emerged dressed in black and greeted each other with quiet handshakes and hugs.

All the same this funeral flock was a lovely sight to watch.  The young, fresh and tidy taking somewhat sophisticated steps into the reality of life.  The old, a bit beaten, but bold, relying on others to steady them to do this yet again.  It was comforting to see Mr. Mel had more than physical shelter from the storms.  

As time passed, I began to wonder for whom they all gathered.  I worried, perhaps, it was Mr. Mel's son who I had seen visiting from time to time.  I considered calling out to even those I did not know, but hesitated.  Shouting, "Hey, who died?" across the yellow lines was probably not proper, after all.

Mr. Mel had yet to be seen, but I knew he was being well cared for, no matter who was gone.  His friends and relatives enveloped him.  Some entered his home from the front while others walked around back. I pictured him sitting inside at a table with a checkered cloth, drinking tea, all of their hands on his somber shoulders.

After our morning routine of coffee and Candyland, my youngest and I prepared to color the sidewalks.  Mr. Mel's door opened just as ours did and I searched for him in the small crowd.  As the mourning wave flowed down the yard it was he who saw me first.  Following his lead, I walked toward him and we met in the middle of the street.  I gave him a big hug and kissed his freckled cheek.

"Mel, what happened?"

"I lost my mother.  She was 102."  His words were calm and proud.

"God bless her," I said looking right into his eyes and then nodded to those looking on.

I suppose we did make an odd looking pair, the two of us, in the middle of the road.  Mr. Mel is a tall, black man, a retired police officer, who smokes a pipe while he waters his lawn.  I like to think of him as a social Boo Radley who watches over my family during the day.

"You know what my mother said?" Mr. Mel egged me on.

"Tell me, what did she say?"

"She said keep looking out for those little girls."

I was stunned.  "No, she didn't," I remarked, unsure how she knew.  Perhaps she had seen my daughters draw chalk, or ride bikes, or smile and wave at Mr. Mel.  But, I didn't remember seeing her.

He smiled.  "She did indeed.  And I will."

After another strong hug, I watched him walk back in his dark gray suit.  As he turned to settle into the car I took note of his bright crisp, white shirt and dapper red bow tie.  A big little boy all dressed up for his momma.  My heart sat sad, yet soared.

They say "good fences, make good neighbors," but I think standing face to face makes better ones.  Mr. Mel's mom, you must have been one special person.  Your son certainly is.    


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Linking up with Yeah Write this week.  Click on the button below to read the other writers who hang out there and then come back Thursday to vote for your favorite.