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.”