Hail. Hail the size of nickels bounced off the green green grass. Hopping like hundreds of snow white frogs. My cast, a hodgepodge of amateur thespians, stared in wonder and horror at nature’s bounty. Several came dashing out into the lawn to feel the balls bouncing off their heads and shoulders, picking them up to examine their size and heft. Hail truly is made up of small balls of ice. Ice formed high above our heads, just waiting to crash down and rain out a rehearsal.
My mommy’s voice. I dozed in the rocker as she read to our child. My child. But our child. My daughter. But our daughter. And I realized that not only is my mother’s embrace the best in the world, but her voice is the most comforting sound I could recall. Her read-aloud voice. It ebbs and flows like an ocean, full of rich undertones, soft secrets, and hidden surprises. It is the voice of knowledge, love, home, and bravery. I could listen to my mommy read aloud forever.
A sandwich. A sandwich made of hummus infused with all sorts of delicious and rarely tasted spices. smothered in a delicacy of vegetables. Encased in wheat bread. Yes. Wheat. The forbidden grain. And I ate with gusto. I ate with dread. This grain could send me into waves of nausea, doubled up in pain. It didn’t. And it won’t. And my body breaths a sigh of relief because I sure love my bread.
Soft cool cheek. She pressed her cheek up against mine as I carried her through the damp night. Put to sleep at her baby-sitter’s, picked up by me, deep into the night, at the end of rehearsal. She whimpered slightly when I tucked her into the car seat. She did not expect a cold, hard car seat after mama’s warm embrace. Only the car in motion lulled her back to sleep. Back home, confused, we drank some milk and sank into her rocking chair to cuddle, sing, hum, and breath her back to her dreams.
And I am left alone. Staring at the clock on my computer screen, knowing full well I have broken my promise to myself to be asleep by now because I was busy searching for something to write. What I don’t know is if I was searching for something for you, reader, or for me, author. For whom do I actually write?