9 Years

I miss you, mom. 9 years has flown by, but when I think about all that has happened over the past decade, it feels like a lifetime since I've seen you. You fit snuggly underneath my chin, and even though you were so tiny, I felt perfectly safe in your arms. I see you more and more when I look in the mirror or when I hear my own voice, and the bittersweet joy these moments bring me is, at times, overwhelming.
There have been a couple of years that have been really, really hard, and it's been during these times I've had to dig deep to feel your embrace, lean on your strength, and hold your hand. But I do feel your presence, mom... I know you're with me... When I hug my kids, especially, I'm able to feel you most.
Life has also been truly beautiful, and I see your smile and hear your laughter so vividly sometimes, it's like you're standing right in front of me. Oh, how I wish you were!
I love you, mama. With all my heart! I know you are dancing with Jesus... and for that, I am thankful!

Thy Neighbor... revisited...

Prologue- 15 years ago

The heat of breath fell thickly on my neck, and the smell of death surrounded me. I knew it was I who was about to die. The darkness was absolute. THERE … no … THERE!

“Are you going to cry?”

            My breathing stopped. The voice I’d heard so many times before spoke to me agian, this time menacing and loathsome.

“Answer me, Julia!”

I couldn’t. My mouth opened, but the words were too terrified to escape. All at once, my mind rushed to my daughter. Oh my God, Sidney, where are you?

“Are… you… going… to cry?”

I shuddered and forced out one solemn sound, “No.”

“You should!”

            There was movement: threatening, deliberate, terrifying. I no longer felt my own body, but I knew I was running. My breathing was sporadic and rushed, but the sound was muffled as if coming from another room. The beating of my heart, however, was deafening, loud and painful, but it was proof that I was still alive.

“Why are you running? You won’t survive!”

            I moved faster through the rooms of my house, but I couldn’t see. I couldn't find Sidney. I had to get to her. The darkness was blinding. Still alive … I was still alive. Then, the sound of my scream, wretched and piercing, echoed through the air, as a gash, burning and severe, emerged on my right arm. So much blood! DON’T SLOW DOWN.  Where is my Sidney? I see it… a small speck of light… I’ve got to get there. If I make it to the light, I live. Run… RUN!

“I’m tired of chasing you… it’s time.”

            I moved to the left, suddenly and purposefully. Thrashing pain! Light. I must focus on the light. Rabid pants exited my lips. My lungs felt crushed, and there was nothing but pain.

“ENOUGH!!”

This was my last chance. I had to reach the light. Cold steel pierced my neck. I couldn’t breathe. This was it… Fire… scorching fire! Stay hidden my baby girl, stay hidden. I continued to lurch forward, knowing the light was my salvation… the light quickly fading to black. I felt the flames of agony and torment, as the proof of my existence fell silent with my final whisper of… Sidney.

I Should Have Read Her Books...

I've never been one to agree with the phrase, "no regrets." It's inevitable that we will make decisions in our lives we wish we hadn't. Our mistakes may help develop us into who we are, but that doesn't mean we should be OK with all of our choices. I know I'm not.

I've mentioned before that my mother is my hero. That remains forever true. She and I had an incredibly close and beautiful relationship, and even though I was an absolute pill during my teenage years, I grew up and apologized profusely for being so awful. She, of course, laughed, hugged me tightly, and promised I would have a daughter of my own one day. And... let me tell you... I most definitely do!

It's coming up on six years since my mother's passing... mother is way too formal... my mama's passing, and I always become very nostalgic around this time of year. She was so tiny... standing straight up, she still fit under my chin, and yet, when she hugged me, even as an adult, I felt completely safe and totally cared for. She was remarkable.

I've often wondered what I would do if I had just one more day with her. Besides the endless tears and laughter and warmth and joy, I finally have an answer: I would read her books and rectify one of my life's biggest regrets.

Mama was, and still is, one of the most talented and creative people I've ever known. She sewed designer dresses, painted beautifully, crafted anything out of anything... amazing things, magical things. She was also a writer. When I was in my especially putrid middle school years, my mom began writing a series of children's books. She wrote daily and proudly and tried endlessly to get them published. It never happened, but she wrote them anyway and asked only one thing of me... to read.

I didn't.

I was too cool, too busy, too... let's face it... bitchy. I didn't have time for the one person who would drop everything to make time for me. And it kills me still. When I was finally over my selfish, self-centered phase in life, it was too late. Our house flooded away, and with it, her beautiful stories. We tried to recover them, but the damage had been done. Out of everything we lost in that flood, her stories are what most saddened her.

As a writer, you vulnerably place your heart on paper and hope and pray someone else sees it for what it is worth and for what it means to you. I hurt my mother when I refused to read her books. I hurt her and made her feel unworthy. I wish I had one more day with her to tell her how proud I am of her. How much I love her stories. How much I love her. How much she continues to influence and guide me. I have no doubt she knew and felt my undeniable love for her... but I wish I could have given her even more... because she deserved it.

Regrets are real. I suppose they are even necessary. I hold on to that regret, so I'll never repeat it again. Because it wasn't about reading, it was about loving.

THE MEDINA... a new book in progress

“It’s like a painting… like portal to another world.”

She was right. In the middle of the brown and aged plaster was a giant wall, carved in cobalt and gold filigree. Swirls and ornate etchings blended together to form a magical, woven window to the past. The center archway was accompanied with two smaller porticos on either side and sea-colored mosaics brilliantly adorned the gateway as sapphires would a gown. Looking at it again through her, allowed Zeyn to experience its splendor all over.

“You know… never, in a million years did I ever think I’d be standing in front of a place like this. I mean, I didn’t even know to dream it, let alone live it.”

Zeyn realized that the magic of the arch had transferred to the woman at his side. She glowed with wonder and enchantment, and damn it, if he couldn’t take his eyes off her. His voice softened of its own accord, as he said, “There’s so much more to see.”

... He placed his hand on her shoulder and guided her back to the 800’s. They wove through the labyrinth of cracked walls and narrow alleys, dodging their way through obstacle courses of people and animal poop, around traffic jams of donkeys and broken carts, and wafted through the aromatic and prismatic pyramids of spices. They took their time, and Claudia felt like a child at a toy store. Everything called to her: the colors of the lights, the smell of the leather goods, the laughter of the men, women, and children, and the awe of the history.

The weight of her bags and the oppressive heat vanished as her wonder grew. She stopped herself from going into any of the shops, in fear her head might explode from sensory overload. She knew she would have time for that later. Now, however, she just wanted to experience the rush of going back in time. Handmade leather shoes and slippers of every color and design hung in linear rows like elaborate tapestries, and if she weren’t careful, she’d purchase every single one. Bags and purses, wooden and ceramic bowls, earrings and necklaces, dresses and scarves, fabrics made of rainbows, silver, gold, left, right, up, down, in every direction. She was flooded by beauty and her heart pounded with joy.

“Do you ever get used to it? All the color? All the noise? All the chaos?”

“It becomes a part of you. And just when it seems like you can’t take anymore, you find yourself missing it when you’re gone. There’s just something about this country that pulls you in.”

Where Has Our Humanity Gone?

     Our first instinct should not be to hate. It should not be to kill. It should not be to oppress. It should not be to defer blame or deny reality.
     Our first instinct should be to love. It should be to help. It should be to accept responsibility and improve the reality of our current society.
     So be better. Raise kids better. Live and love better. There are so many incredible people in the world... Let your voices be heard... loud and clear! There is strength in unity... there can also be peace.

The Collection- Excerpt

           Sarah’s eyes moved violently from underneath their lids. Her breathing was ragged and frantic, and her legs had become completely entangled with the sheets on her bed. Her warm, soft comforter had been kicked to the ground, and Sarah shivered in response to being fully exposed to the chill in the air. She reached her hand up to her neck and began to gasp, her eyes still shut. Her mouth opened, but there was no sound, just a deafening silence that permeated throughout the room.

            In a last ditch effort of survival, Sarah’s eyes snapped open and she sat up with her hands balled into tight fists. She kicked her legs viciously, trying desperately to free them from their restraints. She could not die this way. She could not allow the shadow to force her into an eternal sleep. She fought and fought, striking her fists into the air, missing her target over and over again, until she could do nothing but peer into the darkness and collapse into tormented tears. She sobbed and pleaded for her life, but the shadow remained vigilant in his oppression, and as the darkness covered her eyes once more, she finally released a scream.

Helpless Onlooker

    I haven't been able to get his screams out of my head. I haven't been able to get the image of his body sinking below the surface of the water out of my dreams. I haven't been able to rid my heart of the immense guilt I feel at not doing anything about it. Five days ago, I saw a young man drown. I was one of those pathetically "helpless onlookers" you hear about in the news: the ones where you question how they could have just watched as life slipped away. The ones I used to question and condemn. And now I'm one of them.
    I've replayed the scene over and over again. Actually, that is a lie. It replays all on its own. I've been trying desperately to forget it. But it won't let me. The rock pier was at least twenty feet above the water, supported by jagged boulders. The spray of the vicious waves reached even higher into the air, tickling the faces of passersby like my family and me. It was a beautiful day, sunny and mild with a salty breeze. There was laughter all around us. But with one haunting scream, the laughter ended.
    The Atlantic ocean off the coast of Rabat is known for its churning waves and tempestuous water. Though beautiful, it is dangerous, often deceptively so. At first, I thought the scream I heard was playful. One of jest. I'd never heard anything like it. The mouth from which it came was fully above water, and when two young men came running by, I thought it might have been some sort of strange joke. But their response to his scream was totally different. Their response was chillingly serious and panicked, and as they made their way down the rocks, I came to the full realization that the boy in the water was drowning.
    I was a lifeguard for three summers in high school. That was 20 years ago, and though I made several saves, I was never a deep water guard. I was never a lifeguard at an open body of water as violent as the Atlantic. I keep telling myself had the two other boys not already gone after him, I would have. I will never know for sure, and that haunts me as well. But they did go after him. They reached him quickly, his head still above water, and a third young man joined them in their rescue.
   Everyone on the pier was relieved. The waves were knocking them back and forth, but with three strong men, we were at peace with the rescue. I calmed my breathing and began to rehearse the CPR process in my head, knowing I would be able to help if needed... then everything changed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the waves attack and two heads go under the water. The boy with the light hair who had gone to save the other was now being pulled under. They were struggling below the surface, and the initial two rescuers frantically attempted to pull them up. But only one emerged.
   All of us could see the boy lowering deeper and deeper into the ocean. I yelled, "He's right there!" But he was already being ripped away by the angry arms of the Atlantic. The light haired boy tore his head from side to side and dove under the water over and over... all in vain. He was gone. I'd done nothing. I watched him die.
   I looked to my husband who was holding the hands of my two young children, and I could tell by the look on his face that he was thinking the same thing. The horror and disbelief was carved into his expression. Chaos erupted and tears stung my eyes. I couldn't keep them from falling. We stayed just in case, and both my husband and I were ready to perform CPR if they could only pull him up... but they never found him. We left as they continued to circle aimlessly in boats and kayaks, but the ocean had claimed him for her own, and my heart continues to pound with sadness. We answered our children's questions as best as we could, but what could we say to erase the trauma of all they'd seen.
   I don't know who he was. I don't know if anyone did. He was a nameless victim, but I will never forget him. I pray for the three boys who did everything they could to save his life. They were so brave, so selfless, and so determined to bring him safely to the rocky shore. They could not compete with the rabid waves or the monster of the churning water below. I couldn't have either. But that knowledge does little to temper my guilt and shame. That knowledge does not silence the screams or the image of death. I pray, with all of my heart, that time will.