Fine Words

Her stories are so fine,
They rip along the edges
They tear through a listener
They show no mercy.

Her words are so fine
They fray when touched
One platinum fiber
Threads throughout each yarn.

They all seem so pure,
So true.  But--quick!--they unravel
Once you look them in the eye.
You say, hey,

I know who you are.
And they say, goodbye.

(Ciampa, Liz.  Good for Everyday Use.  Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2012. p.11. Print.)

Blizzard

by Law Hamilton

Pelted, as I inhale razor blades.  

Who thought 0 degrees would be so cold? And that snowfall could hurt? But I am halfway there. The pack on my back is getting heavier. In the warm summer months, this walk would take 2 minutes. I dare not look at my iPhone to see how long it has been since I left the house. I have made the bend in the road, but with almost no visibility, I can no longer see the house. Am I halfway there?

The top of my boots reach the bottom of my knees and yet, the boots are taking on snow, packing it around my calves as I pull them up out of mid-thigh drifts onto pavement blown clean.  The winds are wild, moving four foot drifts in a blink of a footstep. A calculated risk is every step forward though this shifting snow. What seems like an hour later, I can hear the waves churning. High tide! The sound that originally called to me to make the journey…  Do I regret it?  Is it time to turn back?

I drop my head into my double gloved hands to temper the air in and out of my lungs hoping to add feeling back into my cheeks and eyes. Snow melts off of my eyelashes, as I wish the warmth of a fire into my fingers. I breathe. A few more steps and I am between the cottages that line the Atlantic. There is shelter and an reprieve from the wind and the the snow that has been falling from the sky in “flakes” as large as eggs.

Removing the pack from my shoulders to the ground, I’m surprised by the four inch layer of snow on top.  Hoping the electronics will work in the cold, this is their maiden voyage. Pulling the camera from the bag, lifting the strap over my head, and hoping the two zip lock bags will protect it from the precipitation. I arrive at the sea wall and sit on top of the snow near a fence post, using the railing as a tripod for the camera.  

Although it is high tide, I cannot see the ocean through the snow, but hear the roar of the wind and waves.  The auto focus on the camera is spastic and will not focus, although the shutter release fires occasionally.  My frozen fingers no longer feel the button for shooting.  Seven shots, I think, and the camera dies.  

Double layers of coats and gloves makes it hard to perform the fine motor movements necessary. I take off an outer layer ski glove. My hand reaches under my husband’s waterproof trench coat layered over my down coat and into the warm pocket, pulling out a lens cloth and a new battery. Fumbling fingers in a thin leather glove try to change the battery, and wipe the lens. I depress the shutter release, the electronics and my frozen fingers fighting my every move in the cold. The second battery dies - five, seven or more shots?  I don’t know. But there is one more battery to try, in the other pocket of my down coat. I load the third battery and hope that it works. Four more clicks and everything feels frozen. Time to go. Stowing the gear into the pack, I brush off two more inches of snow from my hat and shoulders, not knowing what may have been captured.

Hoisting the pack across my shoulders, I turn my back to the ocean and head home

Law Hamilton's "Blizzard" image may also be seen at:

http://arcworksart.org/

Getting Warm

by Mary Higgins

Charlotte opened the door cautiously. The man stood there on the porch in a black woolen coat, his muffler tucked around his neck securely, shoulders hunched up to his ears from the cold.

“Are you Charlotte? Hello, I’m Dan, from Saint Peter’s Church.”

“Won’t you come in?”

Stamping the snow off his boots Dan entered.

Charlotte showed him into her living room where the baby sat peacefully in his playpen in the center of the room.

Looking around at a sparsely furnished room with its red love seat, a wooden rocking chair that had seen better years and faded beige wall-to-wall carpeting, Dan noticed the small living space was old but clean.

With his broad shoulders, a mustache and piercing blue eyes that spoke volumes., Charlotte’s eyes opened wide.

Her sweet round face, framed by a mop of brown curls, Charlotte made a pretty picture. It had been one year since Richard had been killed in Afghanistan, his helicopter bringing supplies rained down by enemy fire and Charlotte had done the best she could eking out a living now as a widow. Saint Peter’s had been a true blessing with its steady  supply of parishioners bringing her hot meals and offers to watch the baby.

Shelving books at the college library allowed Charlotte to put food on the table but life was still a constant struggle. When the hot water heater breathed its last, she called the plumber to have the water shut off before the basement flooded. There was barely enough to pay the rent and feed the baby. For the first time in her life, she needed to apply for funding to pay for a new hot water heater.

With her tow-headed 13 month old son on her lap, Charlotte sat on the sofa, looking up at the handsome stranger. She admired the clean cut of Dan’s nose and the little cleft in his chin.

“So your hot water heater broke yesterday?”

“No, actually last Thursday.”

“You’re been without any hot water for over a week?

“Yes”

“I just received your request yesterday”, he smiled warmly

“Now do you have a reliable plumber?”

“yes” she offered his name and number.

To her surprise, there were no papers for her to sign. Charlotte felt herself growing warm as she looked into his crystalline eyes.

“I’ll get in touch with your plumber and we’’ll see if we can coordinate his schedule with yours. With Christmas next week, we may need to install the heater on a weekend day. Is that ok with you?”

“Sure” Charlotte said. “Would you like something hot to drink?”

“Yes that would be nice. I have some time before I need to pick my daughter up at daycare.”

Walking into the kitchen, Charlotte wondered if there was a “Mrs.” in the picture. Setting out the only china cups she owned, her brain was humming with expectation. Could more than a hot water heater be warming her this winter?

The Coffee Shop

by Lauraine Lombara

There is a hesitation in the older woman’s step as I watch her enter the popular coffee shop in No. Beverly, close by the commuter rail station. Her shoulders sag a bit as she seems to force herself forward into the crowded room.  Looking at the offerings of pastry in the case and then at the list of beverages on the overhead board, I hear her mutter softly, “I need my glasses; I can’t see from this distance; I don’t know “.

“Excuse me, M’am,” I hear from a customer, waiting to get beyond this poor soul who is lost in a thicket of young to middle-aged men and women impatiently waiting to order their coffees, lattes, cappuccinos or teas, before getting on with their busy lives; always in a rush.

              I decide to be a Good Samaritan and help as she reminds me of myself when I had been a novice at the upscale cafés and bistros and had trouble deciphering the menu.  “Come over here by me for a minute,” I whisper to her, “we can wait until there’s a little break and meanwhile figure out what we like”. “Oh, thanks so much, that’ll be great.  I love rich coffee but I am so unaccustomed to ordering with all the different choices, sizes and the names.  What is tall, grande, macchiato, Americano?  It is so, so confusing”. 

I snag a table and place my heavy coat on one chair and ask her if she plans to have her coffee to-go or will she sit and enjoy it.  “I would love to sit with you and wait here in the warmth until my train arrives.  I’ll put my overcoat on the other chair” she states, now visibly more relaxed. We approach the counter after I help her decide.  “I’ll have a cappuccino and a croissant”, she declares with a firm voice and a flourish of her hand.  “I do so admire the French and Italians.They have a flair for delicious sounding pastries and coffee drinks”.   I smile sweetly at her; a woman who minutes before seemed lost and confused and is now in control. We wait for our cappuccino and latte, her croissant, my nothing, and then sit down gratefully, to sip, gaze around, chat and smile for a pause that refreshes both of us in body and in mind before braving the winter cold outside.