A few things I saw this morning

Posted on by alisonmcghee

Five pelicans, flying in formation, skimming low over the water on the lookout for fish.

A thirteen-year-old golden retriever lowering himself to his haunches in the surf, then clambering out on the sand to wiggle ecstatically on his back.

Bubbles rising silently in a straight-sided copper bottom pot. The same pot a few minutes later, shimmering and shaking over a wide red coil of heat.

The bright black eyes of a squirrel fixed on mine as he advanced down a branch and toward my waiting palm.

Tan foam that looked like dirty whipped cream, surfing in on the waves that fold and retreat, fold and retreat, fold and retreat, at the shoreline.

A woman wearing a long white shirt and black shorts, bent at the waist and peering intently at something only she could see in the water.

An uninhabited wooden platform, like a treeless treehouse and taller than all of the few surrounding houses, standing sentry in a white sand lawn.

The silent, slender t-shirted backs of two sleeping teenage girls.

The far-apart vanishing footprints of someone who must have been running in the sand.

A transparent, blue-rainbowed sea creature blown up on the beach, shaped like a Chinese potsticker and trembling in the wind.

A footnote in someone else's story

Posted on by alisonmcghee

That mask there to the right, modeled by an old friend, is one you used to wear every Halloween. Then you had children and it terrified them, so you put it on a high shelf and haven’t worn it since.

Recently, it resurfaced when you were attempting a deep-clean of the furnace room. You put it on and the vinyl smell of Halloweens past came flooding through you. You remembered walking into a bar many years ago and watching through the eye slits as people stared.

“That girl’s face paint is amazing,” one woman whispered (the mask falls a bit short on your friend’s face but fits yours perfectly).

Now the mask is in one of the drawers in your closet. It hung on a hook for some time in there, drooping down among many scarves, but it unnerved you to come upon it late at night, so into the sock drawer it went.

You used to love wearing it. You could feel anything behind that mask and no one would know. So freeing. Your mother used to tell you how much she loved wearing a uniform at the tiny private school that had given her a scholarship.

“No one knew how poor I was,” she said. “We all looked the same. It was wonderful.”

What this mask has to do with being a footnote in someone else’s story, you’re not sure. But it does. That’s something you’ve learned over these years, that free association means something.

You can learn a great deal by closing your eyes. Separate yourself from the way a person looks, and you will instead focus on the way she smells.

You can learn a great deal by closing your mind, too – by ignoring rationality. The rational mind doesn’t always know best, or know much of anything. There are aspects of a person that you can’t articulate in words, but that you know way deep down. The problem is that we’re taught out of that way of knowing someone; we’re trained out of it early on.

Everyone has a story, a story of why she’s in this life, what she’s meant to do here. You come into the world knowing it, fully sentient, and then you forget. Or it’s trained out of you.

Many people are hurt in some way, looking for something to mend a fracture of some sort. Others don’t know they’re looking to mend something. They can’t articulate it to that extent; they’re blind, and searching. Grasping. They grasp on to those who have the capability –the fault line?– to respond to them.

Those who allow themselves to be grasped believe, on some level, that they are fracture-menders. Or that they can be.

It can take a combination of seeming paradoxes –the passing of years and the unlearning of what you’ve been trained– to move through the world on your own terms. Even to know what your own terms are. It’s the work of a lifetime, and no one can do it but you.

Begin with smell.

Your body knows things that your mind doesn’t. Stay away from someone whose smell you don’t like. You don’t have to be cruel or rude, but there’s a reason you should stay away. No need to question your instinct; obey it.

Leave sight out of it. Sight is the least trustworthy of the six senses.

Sound is somewhat trustworthy, or rather, it can be if something in the voice you’re listening to makes you tense up, turn wary. If this happens, stay away.

Touch can also be trustworthy, but it becomes clouded by sex and physical attraction, and neither of those can be fully trusted.

Taste? Not applicable, most of the time, except under those circumstances that also involve sex and physical attraction, and the same can’t-be-fully-trusted rule applies there too.

That leaves smell –trust it– and your sixth sense. That’s the most reliable of all, but you usually have to shut down the other five senses in order to know what, at heart, is going on.

Do that. Shut down. Put the face-paint mask on. Listen to what your sixth sense is telling you. Let yourself know what you already know.

Some things to keep in the back of your mind:

Charm and charisma are measured out on one side of a scale. Something else is on the other side, in equal measure.

Certain expressions will flit across a face very briefly, in a fraction of a second. Other people in the same room might not see what you saw. But you did. Don’t discount this.

Some people in this world want you, need you, to be a footnote in their story. But anything that comes in italics, like that word need? Be careful.

The other side of the wariness scale is unwariness, and that too comes in equal measure. The same rules apply to unwariness as well, except that you can trust sight and touch more, over here on the unwariness side. This side of the scale is lighter, so you can fit more on it.

Over on this side is where you meet the people who, when you close your eyes, give off light. Stand tall. Look at you with kind and curious eyes. Smell familiar. You can trust this, too.

Portrait of a Friend, Vol. 1

Posted on by alisonmcghee

You met her fourteen years ago. She was tiny then, and now, at 90, she is even tinier.

The first time you met her she grasped both your hands in her own pale arthritic ones. You felt a shock of recognition that transcended the 40+ year difference in your ages, and she felt it too.

She has often spoken of it since: “We are soul sisters.” She believes that your connection was formed long ago, before this life, and that it will continue after this life.

She has glossy, jet black hair that frames her face, and she often wears black and red. Bright red sweaters, a bright red coat, black pants, a black shirt. She’s beautiful. She shines. Light surrounds her.

For almost sixty years she’s lived in a fifth-floor walkup in midtown, first with her husband and now, for the past twenty years, alone. You’ve met her neighbors, five of them, and you’ve seen how they too adore her. One of them brings her mail up, one helps with groceries, another helps her down and outside and into a cab, should she want to go out.

Which she does. She goes out a lot, to dinner, to see friends, to ceremonies that honor her work as an artist.

You’ve never seen her apartment but you imagine it: crammed with books and artwork and Chinese furniture –she is Chinese-American, born and raised in San Francisco and New York– and lovely fabrics. She is the kind of person who surrounds herself with beautiful things, and beautiful things are drawn to her.

Although you didn’t meet her until you were all grown up, you knew her work much earlier. She is an artist, and some of the picture books you read when you were a child contain her artwork. Thirty years before you met her in person, her art was part of your mind and memory.

Arthritis has taken so much of her limberness away, crippling arthritis that takes her three hours each morning to overcome enough to get out of bed. Once, she was trapped inside her apartment for a day because she couldn’t turn the doorknob and open the door.

She falls sometimes, and some of her friends –she has many friends– scoop her up. When asked if she’s okay she laughs. She has a high, tinkling laugh; it sounds like small windchimes.

“Of course!” she says. “I only weigh 65 pounds, like a child. Falling doesn’t hurt.”

She calls you sometimes, usually when you’re making dinner.

“Oh, what you are you making, my darling treasure?” she says, and you tell her, and she exclaims how delicious it sounds.

You call her sometimes, too. You hate talking on the phone but for her, you’ll do whatever it takes. You let the phone ring and ring and ring: arthritis. She has no answering machine, and sometimes you let it ring thirty or more times. And then she picks up.

“Hello?” she says.

“Hello!” you say, and she knows right away who it is.

“I had a feeling you might call,” she says, and then you’re off and running, usually for no more than ten minutes, minutes full of I love you’s and laughter.

Her voice is so young. She is so young. That’s one of the things you’re realizing these days, that it’s the body that ages, not the spirit.

“Goodbye, my precious darling,” she says.

Her father’s name for her when she was a child was Precious. He held her on his lap and read her stories. Her mother cooked for her. Her uncles and aunts played with her and took her wandering through the city.

“I grew up surrounded by love,” she says, “nothing but love. How could I not be happy?”

After you hang up, you go back to your work, and fifteen hundred miles away, she goes back to hers. Soon she will be 91. You have a box of notes she’s sent you over the years, not so much notes as tiny pieces of art. Someday you’ll frame them all and hang them on your wall, so that whenever you look at them you’ll feel her presence again, her light and sparkling presence.

Rain

Posted on by alisonmcghee

I’m thinking about rain today.

It’s been a long time since I saw rain. Heard it. Felt it. We are not in a drought, but there has been no rain for many months now. Rain has fallen, but not in its original form.

What was once rain, what would still be rain were it not so deadly cold, has been reincarnated and is now living a new, white, silent life. This reincarnated rain doesn’t sink into the ground or pool at the corners of the streets. It stays above ground and grows ever higher.

I miss rain. I miss puddles. I miss earthworms stretching themselves on the pavement after a rain.

I miss the smell of wet pavement. I miss rain that falls silently and softly, disappearing into the black earth of my garden. I miss rain that drums earpoundingly on the tin roof of a one-room cabin in Vermont.

I miss the first drop of rain, cool and wet, falling on my cheek when I’m an hour’s walk away from home. I miss the questioning look in my dog’s eyes as he, rainhater, turns his head up to me as the rain begins to fall.  I miss running on the beach when a storm is blowing in.

I miss crouching in the clearing under the weeping willow as rain streams down the long leafy branches above and around me. I miss reading in the hay fort with my flashlight on a rainy summer day when I’m too far into the bales to hear it but it’s all around me nonetheless.

I miss the way rain calms the air, makes it possible to pull a brush through my hair without those snaps and crackles, tiny lightnings, rising about my head.

My middle name is pronounced Rain.  Pilipalapilipala is the Chinese name for the sound of falling rain. Rain pocks the surface of the ocean when it falls, dimples the rushing water of the river.

My astrological sign is Cancer, a water sign, and water is what I crave: rivers and creeks and lakes and ocean. Deserts are not for me.

The title of a book I wrote, a word I made up, contains the word rain. It came to me as I pedaled fast around a lake in a thunderstorm.

In spring, rain comes bubbling up out of the ground, forms itself into rivulets and creeks, goes tumbling down the hill and into the river, and to the great waters beyond.

This will happen soon.

Stand before a bookcase, close your eyes, pick a book, open it up, jab your finger down on the page, and use that sentence as your opening

Posted on by alisonmcghee

“…together, country-western on the radio.”

Johnny Cash. Tammy Wynette. Dolly Parton. Loretta Lynn. Lynn Anderson. Hank Williams. Glen Campbell. Johnny Cash. Johnny Cash. Has Johnny Cash been mentioned? Johnny Cash.

These are the country-western singers you grew up with, the ones who were on the radio in the station wagon as you and your family drove. Which you had to do all the time –drive– since you lived five miles north of the nearest town.

These are the singers whose records you played on the record player. The first record you bought with your own money, when you were a little kid, was Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison.

You and your family once saw Johnny at an outdoor stadium in Toronto. It poured down rain, and your seats were out in the open. No shelter. “If you stay, I’ll play,” he said, and he went through guitar after guitar as each one got soaked on stage.

Dolly you loved, and you love even more now. She felt like a friend. Loretta you were a little scared of, but you admired her. Glen made you dream about wide-open spaces and horses and cowboy boots. Lynn had a song called “Fancy” that you listened to over and over and over and over and over and over, before you even understood what the song was about. Hank, Hank. . . something about him made you want to cry. Tammy made you think. But not too hard. She felt like the lesser of the country sisters.

Johnny, though, he was everything. You mourned the day he died, and you love his daughter partly because she’s a good songwriter, and partly because she loved her dad so much.

Country-western on the radio. Baseball on the radio. The WIBX morning show on the radio.

There was a lot of radio in your life, back then, and none of it was the NPR that you listen to nonstop now.

What would you take with you, if you could?

Posted on by alisonmcghee

If you could take something with you when you leave this world, what would you take? That’s the question that has been asked of you, and the obvious things aren’t allowed: those whom you love.

You put a colon in that sentence above because you thought you’d be making a list of all the obvious things that you aren’t allowed to take with you, but as it turns out, there’s only one obvious thing that matters: those whom you love.

Last night you couldn’t sleep. You woke up at 1:50 in a typical middle-of-the-night terror, your mind spinning wildly. You went through them all, all those whom you love, ticking them off one by one.

If you didn’t know exactly where they were, right at that moment, you imagined it. The boy: asleep in a room on the tenth floor of a building in a city by the sea.  The girl: asleep ten feet away; you could hear the whir of the fan that keeps her peaceful. The other girl: asleep thirty feet away; you pictured the dog curled up next to her on the sleeping bag she prefers to sheets.

The mother and father: asleep in the upstairs room of the house you grew up in, surrounded by vast snowy woods and fields, their own dog asleep on the couch downstairs.

The brother: asleep with his wife, three miles away, in the room adjoining their baby’s room. The sister: asleep in her upstairs bedroom next to her husband, the twin boys down the hall, asleep in their bunks. The other sister: asleep in her upstairs bedroom next to her husband, the three children in their rooms on the same floor.

The man and his dog: asleep, or maybe not asleep, in a room filled with books two miles away.

The best friend: asleep next to her husband on the second floor of the light-filled house fifteen hundred miles away.

You turn over. Everyone is accounted for. But for how long? How long will it last? What will you do when one of the dominoes tumbles? You must figure out a way to cope. You must be strong. You must not crumble. Your mind spins off again, spiraling up and away, and you flip the pillow. You listen to the fan in the girl’s room. You push your leg against the weight of the cat, asleep next to you.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

What would you take with you, if you could?

All these quilts on top of your layers of sleep clothes –the t-shirt, the other t-shirt, the long-sleeve shirt, the flannel pajamas– are making you hot. But if you push one of the quilts off then you might get cold. If you get cold you might never get warm again. Better keep all the quilts on.

But man, it’s hot. Push a quilt off. If you get cold, you can pull the quilt back on. Keep careful track now, because the minute you start to get cold it could all be over. You might never get warm again.

You lie there, keeping track. Where are those you love now? It’s 3:57; surely they’re all still asleep. Run through them all again, one by one, in your mind. Check. Check. Check.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

What would you take with you, if you could? Would you take your cactus mug? Would you take the photo of your grandmother and grandfather and their dog, that photo with you in the background beside them? Would you take your black cowboy shirt? Would you take your secret recipe for toffee? Would you take your favorite pair of jeans? Would you take your excellent sense of smell, the rickety green bench you commandeered from the trash down the alley? Would you take the letter your father wrote you ten years ago?

Two days ago you and your girls went to the Somali mall and got henna tattoos. Henna lasts a few weeks, and then it fades away.

You’re still too hot. All these layers. Push off another quilt. But wait, you might get cold at any moment. The first domino might fall at any moment. And then what?

What would you take with you, if you could?

A long time ago someone came running back up those narrow apartment building stairs after saying goodbye, four floors up, and threw his arms around you, and told you he was crazy about you. He was wearing a long black coat. Or maybe he wasn’t, this was spring, why would he be wearing a long black coat? You hugged him back.

Then he became a domino that fell, and he took you with him.

Still too hot. You get up out of the quilt-strewn bed and turn on the overhead fan. It’s winter, and here you are with an overhead fan? How strange. It is very, very hot in this room. Still, though, you might get cold at any time. Something might happen at any time, and it’s best to preserve as much warmth as you possibly can. If you get cold you might never get warm again.

The Archaeology of Snow

Posted on by alisonmcghee

That photo over there is a photo of the steps that lead up to her house. There are six steps, wide and shallow, covering a vertical distance of approximately four feet from bottom to top.

That’s what she remembers, anyway. There might be five steps, or seven. Who can tell, under all that snow?

She did a little experiment earlier. She stood at the top of where she thought the top step might be, and then she leaped. She landed, she thinks, on the sidewalk. But who’s to know, under all that snow?

Earlier in the day she put on her boots and hauled her yellow steel-spring snow shovel upstairs to her bedroom. Outside the large bedroom window is a small slanted roof (one of several, because it’s a house with several peaks and slants), a roof piled so high with snow that half the window was obscured.

Which would have been fine, because what’s a little more whiteness on top of whiteness, except that she noticed a crack in the wall, right through the plaster and paint, directly underneath the window and running its entire width.

No! This could mean only one thing: The Ice Dam Cometh.

Up to the bedroom she went, lugging the shovel. She pushed open the large window, which is on hinges, and hauled herself and the shovel onto the roof. Then she commenced shoveling.

The top foot or so was easy. Feathery light sparkling snow, the kind that whisks off the shovel and flies up in your face with the slightest breeze. Somewhat out of control, but weightless, so that it’s not really a bother.

Fling, fling, fling, gone. She considers this top layer Ectomorphic Snow. Given her body type, if she were snow, this is the kind of snow she would be.

The second foot or so was what she thinks of as ordinary, run of the mill winter snow. Solid, well-packed, not a lot of air. Difficult to shovel but certainly not impossible. She thinks of this kind of snow as exercise snow. Spend an hour shoveling this snow –she will call it Mesomorphic Snow– and there is no need to go lift weights at the Y. Mesomorphic snow is rewarding.

Her youngest child, if she were to turn into snow, would be this kind of snow.

The last foot and a half proved very grim. At first glance, this bottom layer looked manageable –granular, crusty, “corn” snow, as they say on the slopes. She attacked it with vigor, believing herself to be nearly finished, and a job well done at that. But the corn snow had been waiting, and it was going to take its time.

You think you are nearly done, O Woman With the Sock Monkey Snow Hat, but how wrong you are.

The corn snow –perhaps better termed the Borderline Personality Disorder Snow– was like a blind date gone horribly wrong. An unassuming, even pleasant appearance, a sociable hello, and then all hell breaks loose.

How long had the BPD snow been lying in wait? A long time, she realized. Months, perhaps, as far back as November. It would go to its death, yes, but it would not gently into that good night.

At this point, halfway through the dour BPD snow struggle, her neighbor emerged from her house to call up to her that she needed to get off the roof immediately because “You will die!”

She would not die, but the BPD snow would. She waved and smiled and carried on. Her neighbor, having done her duty, retreated into the safety of her own home.

And that is how it came to pass that her backyard clothesline, normally a comfortable few inches above her head, now hangs mere inches above the backyard snowdrift composed of Ectomorphic, Mesomorphic, and Death by Being Methodically Chopped Into Small Pieces and Flung Overboard snow.

So did you know that at our local gas station –

Posted on by alisonmcghee

You have to write something that begins with “So did you know that at our local gas station. . .”

Do you want to? Not really. But write it you will,  because this is what you signed up for, here on this write what I tell you, like it or not day.

Off you go to the search engine, to find a photo of your favorite local gas station, so that everyone can see how charming it is, if indeed a gas station can be charming.

Here are the words you type into the image searching engine: winner gas pump munch nicollet.

That photo to the right up there is what comes back to you. It is from a woman named Shea’s blog, which appears to be a food blog. Does Shea’s blog have anything at all to do with the Pump ‘n Munch on 44th and Nicollet, here in the frozen hell you call home?

In an alternate world, perhaps, but not in yours, at least not today, this early morning when your frozen hell city has been declared the nation’s coldest by all the weather stations in the country. But you shall keep that photo up there, because looking at that woman’s smiling face –Shea, is that you?– gives you hope that one day you, too, will feel like smiling again, here in the frozen hell in which you live. Look at her there, in what appears to be a greengrocer’s, surrounded by healthy green vegetables. You would like to live Shea’s life for just a few moments, perhaps the next five, to be exact.

PAUSE FOR STATION IDENTIFICATION

Not really. But you suddenly had an intense craving for a large spoonful of Plantation Unsulphured Blackstrap Molasses, and who are you to deny intense cravings? You also have an intense craving to be in Shea’s greengrocer shop (is that how you phrase it? or should you say Shea’s greengrocer’s – is just the word alone sufficient? You are not British, so you cannot speak with authority on the subject of greengrocering), but since that craving cannot be immediately satisfied, the blackstrap molasses will have to do.

What is it about molasses, anyway? Do any of the rest of you get an intense craving for a large spoonful of it every now and then? Does it indicate an insufficiency of something in the body? Certainly there is a lack, or maybe it’s an overabundance, of synapse firing in your own body, but can a large spoonful of molasses help with that?

BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING

Which happens to be the Winner Gas Pump ‘n Munch at 44th and Nicollet, here in the frozen hell otherwise known as Minneapolis. You have written about Winner Gas previously, in terms of its being your preferred place to purchase lottery tickets, but you love the Pump ‘n Munch and you do not love the BP, the SA, or the Holiday, so back to Pump ‘n Munch you go.

There appears to be nothing that can’t be bought at the Pump ‘n Munch. For a store that’s roughly the size of half the first floor of your house (meaning, tiny), these, off the top of your head, are a few of the things you can stock up on:

Assorted candy, milk, cream, sodas (both brand and off-brand), beer (you think, anyway – you are not a beer drinker, but many of the Pump ‘n Munch customers seem to walk out with tall cans of beer-ish looking beverages), tiny bottles of weird-looking energy and/or aphrodisiacal drinks, cigars, chewing tobacco, condoms, pain relievers of all sorts, hot coffee, pre-made sandwiches, a virtuosic assortment of snacks, household supplies such as garbage bags and toilet paper, fishing supplies, birthday cards, “Busted: a magazine of Mug Shots, Sex Offenders, and Criminals in Your Neighborhood,” and, of course, all manner of lottery tickets.

But the best thing about the Pump ‘n Munch is the man behind the counter. He is there literally all the time. One of your friends, a man who also favors the Pump ‘n Munch above all other gas-dispensing establishments, asked him recently how much he works per week.

“70-80 hours!”

“Why so much?”

“Bills, Charlie! Bills!”

Your friend’s name is not Charlie, but the man behind the counter calls everyone –everyone male, that is– Charlie. Does the man behind the counter have a family? Interesting that you should ask that question, because your friend posed the exact same question to him.

“No! You find me a woman, ok, Charlie? Find me a good one!”

It’s surprising that the man behind the counter doesn’t have a good woman, because he is so endearing, so cheerful, so energetic and kind. Many is the time you have been waiting patiently in line at the Pump ‘n Munch –as patiently as you can do anything, that is– while the people ahead of you, people who, by all appearances, live hard and difficult lives, fumble in their pockets for change to buy their candy, their Mountain Dew, their lottery tickets and/or their tall cans of beerish-looking beverages.

“I got you!” the man behind the counter will say, fishing a dollar out of his own pocket. “See you tomorrow!”

When you buy your lottery ticket, he hands it to you and says, “Good lu-uck!” If he forgets, you remind him.

“You have to say good luck,” you say, and he laughs and says, “Good lu-uck!”

Yes, this is your local gas station. Everyone should be so lu-ucky to have one.

How she got so good at typing

Posted on by alisonmcghee

How she got so good at typing? She practiced. She took a typing class in high school, when she was 15. It was taught by a woman who also taught Business, which, now that she looks back on it, was shorthand (which they didn’t teach) for Secretarial Skills.

That photo to the right there is not what her class looked like, but it does seem to exemplify a class on Secretarial Skills.

The class was full, mostly girls but boys too. The typewriters were heavy, one per wooden desk. The keys clacked, loudly.

There was a book of some kind that the teacher passed around, a book full of typing exercises. She began by memorizing the keys, by touch, with simple little exercises that spelled out words. When she’d mastered them she moved on to sentences that incorporated punctuation, beginning with the three that you see in this sentence.

Longer sentences followed, ones that incorporated all the letters. “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.” Then came paragraphs, short, circumspect paragraphs about the weather, various holidays, food.

Letters followed, letters that usually, in her memory anyway, detailed brief business transactions. Someone had ordered something. Where was the something he had ordered? Might it be arriving soon?

The teacher taught them the correct spacing after a period –two spaces– and how many times to hit the Enter key after a paragraph (twice). She had to unlearn that correct spacing after a period rule once computers came to rule the world, and it was not an easy task.

She loved to type. Her goal was words that appeared on the page as fast as she could think them, and a typewriter was a vast improvement over a pen. Clack clack clack; her fingers leapt about the typewriter, and the sheet of white paper inched itself up from the roller.

Make a mistake? White-out. Daub it on with the little brush, let it dry, roll the paper back down to the correct line, re-type the letter. Or the word, or the sentence.

When she went to bed at night, age 15, she typed herself to sleep in her mind. She would think up sentences and paragraphs, tiny stories even, and close her eyes and imagine her fingers on the typewriter, clacking out the keys.

That right there is how she got so good at typing. Imaginary typing. Typing that didn’t involve a typewriter or a ream of paper or any sound at all other than what she heard inside her head. She went to bed practicing her typing in the privacy of her own mind, and when she woke up in the morning, she was a faster typist.

She got to be incredibly fast, and incredibly accurate. In fact, when she moved to Boston after college and embarked on her life as an unpublished writer, she supported herself by typing papers for students. $1/page, whether it was a paper on Jane Austen (yay! no symbols!) or a math Ph.D. thesis (yikes! all symbols!).

Later, in the years of babies and tiny children, she would write her stories in snatches of time during the day. She had moved on to a computer then; all she cared about was speed and ease. She had not changed since she was 15. She still wanted the words to appear as fast as she thought them.

Sometimes, during those snatched stretches of time, type type type type type type, she would sense a presence behind her and turn to see her son and his friends standing silently in the room, watching.

“Whoa. Is your mom the fastest typer in the world?”

“Yeah. She is.”