Lucy

"To live long, eat like a cat, drink like a dog."

- German Proverb

"Look how lucky we are," he said as he bent over and began playing tug of war with Lucy. She'd been sitting patiently at his feet, staring at him intently, as she waited for the joyous moment he would attempt to snatch the blue scrap of rope she was holding tightly in her teeth. "We have a great life. We're living the dream," he said. He was sentimental and favored cliche. Though I often rolled my eyes, I secretly loved that about him.

He'd begrudgingly agreed to bring Lucy home from my brother's house. My brother bred English bulldogs and Lucy was by far the sweetest of his latest litter. A little, white, wrinkly, cuddly lump with tiny brown spots on her ears, she'd slept in my lap all Christmas day. Employing the "if I still wanted her in a week" strategy, I'd left her that Christmas day and pouted the entire ride home. A week later, on New Year's Eve, Lucy came home.

Despite a gloomy forecast, it'd been a warm, sunny Saturday. "Come outside with us," he said as he walked toward the front door. Lucy had, of course, beaten him there and was wiggling excitedly as he opened the door. I told him I'd be there in a minute and walked toward the kitchen. Moments later I emerged from the house, a dirty martini in hand, to see Lucy chasing him - and her blue rope - wildly around the yard. He was slightly out of breath and laughing that big, belly laugh that everyone loved. My heart swelled. She was quickly edging me out as his best friend. "Who's that," he asked her as they paused for the briefest moment to acknowledge my presence. Wanting in on the fun, I took a quick sip, set the drink on the white wicker stand and headed down the porch steps. As I walked toward them he threw the rope to me and she charged. He laughed even harder. Smiling, I silently agreed, we were living the dream.

God Opened a Window

She never quite leaves her children at home, even when she doesn't take them along.
- Margaret Culkin Banning

As I sat in the pew, my best friend affix securely, as always, to my side, I watched one mourner after the next approach my mother's casket. There is usually a large turn out when someone dies young and, at points, the line was out the door of the grey stone church. I'd been baptised and confirmed in that church and, a few years later, I'd be married there.

Hours earlier we'd had the family viewing. I'd shopped the day before for her outfit. She'd always felt sassy in red, so I'd selected a simple red silk blouse and black trousers. The mortician had suggested purchasing a scarf, to hide the incisions on her neck, and a wig. Along with the scarf, I'd selected a small gold broach to be used as a clasp. The wig I'd chosen was a close match to her short, curly cut. After receiving the approval of my siblings, I placed the outfit and accessories in a single shopping bag and dropped it off at the funeral home without a word of instruction.

As I neared her casket, I saw my mother's small, still form adourned in the garments I'd chosen for her. Staring first at her hands, I couldn't bare to look at her face, I realized that would be the last moment I'd have with my mother... that was the last moment I was truly myself. After a few seconds my eyes travelled to her face. I missed her so terribly already. As my eyes began to sting from the tears, I saw them. The broach had been part of a set and had come with small gold earrings. I hadn't removed the earrings from the box, and the mortician had taken it upon himself to peirce my mother's ears. She'd never pierced her ears and chided me each time I'd suggested piercing mine. Despite the several savage surgeries she'd endured over the past two weeks, it was the piercing of her ears that I felt was most brutal... and it was my fault. I hadn't removed the earrings from the damn box.

Later, as I sat off to the side of the church, resenting every word of condolence offered to me, I berated myself for not removing the earrings from the box. In my entire life, it would be the only opportunity I would be given to take care of my mother and I'd failed. Fifteen years later I 'd still feel disappointed in myself.

As the crowd began to thin and the evening came to a close, he walked through the door and down to my mother's casket. He kneeled, said a brief prayer, stood up and walked toward me. I heard my mother's voice... when God closes a door, he opens a window.

A Lonely Homecoming

Vanity is as ill at ease under indifference as tenderness is under a love which it cannot return.
- George Eliot

I sighed as I turned the car left into the driveway. I knew he wouldn't be home. He had told me so a few hours before. Pulling into the garage, however, I felt a surprising wave of disappointment at not seeing his car in its usual place... the oil-stained garage floor an annoying reminder that he needed a new car. "Why make two car payments at once if we don't have to," he'd ask whenever I suggested we go car shopping. "I'll buy a 'newish' car when you're done paying off yours," he'd say. I still had two more years of payments. The Mercedes had been a shamefully indulgent thirty-fourth birthday gift to myself... a gift I well deserved. I loved that car, and so did he. It was the one morsel of extravagance we allowed ourselves in our otherwise fiscally responsible existence... a mind-numbingly responsible existence if the truth be told. A year later, however, on my thirty-fifth birthday, our years of fiscal responsibility paid off and we were finally able to buy our dream home in the country.

It had been much harder leaving our little Victorian bungalow than I had anticipated. I had moved in when I was twenty... just a few months after my mother had died. As my father had died when I was six, I was somewhat of an orphan and he welcomed me into his home without hesitation. It had been his kindness, patience and support that had carried me threw those too many dark years after my mother's death. "Just go to class," he'd say, "That's all you have to do. You can be as sad as you want to, but go." He knew that eventually the crushing sadness would pass, and was absolutely convinced that I was capable of great things. His blind faith in me, however ill-advised, gave me strength. For the next seven years I did little more than go to class. The sadness worsened and each day was darker than the last. At the end of those seven years, however, having passed the bar exam, I was overwhelmed with hope and gratitude. I would not have survived, let alone thrived, were it not for his unfailing love. The sadness began to pass.

As the garage door closed and I got out of the car, I found myself staring out the window... longing to see his car turning left into the driveway.

The Perfect Summer Day

"Actually, I'm a drinker with writing problems."
- Brendan Behan

I walked in the side door and went directly downstairs to peel off my unbearably binding work clothes. On good days, the martini glass was chilled and I could hear the ice dancing in the shaker when I walked in the door. This was a good day. "Hey," he said with a grin as I re-emerged in my most comfortable [read unattractive] clothes and he handed me the glass. I smiled, grateful that I was in that place at that time. The feel of the glass in my hand, the scent of the martini and the first slow sip all worked instantly to ease my troubled mind.

It was a beautiful late summer day complete with bright blue skies, fluffy white clouds and the scent of fresh cut grass and barbecued everything in the air. Such days should never, never be spent in the office. Determined to enjoy the last few hours of this gorgeous day, I gave him a quick kiss, grabbed my book and headed out the sliding glass door to the deck. I settled into the Adirondack style chair he had made for me that, although it was made from scrap wood he had collected over the years, could not have been more comfortable. I took a deep breath and sipped my martini. I swallowed then exhaled. I opened my book and began to read.

Soon I heard him in the garage preparing to mow the law. He smiled at me now and then as the row he was completing neared the deck. Later, as the sun began to set, he grilled steaks while I enjoyed my second martini and tended to the hanging flower baskets that adorned the wraparound porch of our little Victorian bungalow. After dinner, he made a fire in the terracotta chiminea on our deck. We relaxed in our matching chairs, alternately staring at the fire and gazing at the stars.