Some Kaliahisms to Get You Over the Hump...

Well, Hump Day is upon us, as are several inches of snow here in Slower Lower Delaware.  Again.

I have no flip or humorous comments to offer concerning the weather.  I have decided, though, that Old Man Winter is much more to blame for this than is Mother Nature.  Men are much more stubborn, and this is The Winter That Never Ends, apparently.

So, what to do when you are snowed in for the four BILLIONTH time with your child or your children?

Treasure them for the joy that they are, of course.

It's either that, or, you know, allow them to slowly but surely drive you insane.

Just kidding.

Mostly.

I am blessed to have an amazing daughter.  Still, sometimes the things that come out of her innocent mouth are quite ridiculous. So on a snowy spring day with not much else to do, I present, for your entertainment:

Kaliahisms.

Actual sayings by our eight-going-on-nine-year-old daughter, Kaliah.

1.  My favorite so far this year:  "It only takes one person to mind the business."  I can't remember the exact context of this quote, but she said it shortly after New Year's and Rashieme and I bring it up frequently.  And true:  if the whole world had Kaliah's attitude, how much more peaceful would planet Earth be?

2.  While cooking breakfast for Rashieme:  "These are going to be the best eggs Dad's ever tasted.  Except for the ones he makes.  They're way better."  Hash tag, Chef Problems.  At least we tried.

3.  After Kaliah finally admitted to forgetting about a cup of apple juice that the cat consequently knocked over:
     Me:  "All you had to do was say, I'm sorry, Mom.  I forgot."
     Rashieme:  "Yeah.  Instead of making a bunch of excuses."  Looks my way. (Guilty as charged, 
     by the way and FYI).  "Wonder who she  gets that from?"
     Kaliah:  "From you, Dad.  You just gave an excuse."
     Rashieme:  "No, I didn't.  Kaliah, do you even know what an excuse is?  Or are you just talking?"
     Me:  "Wonder who she gets that from."

4.  "That dumb cat is so smart!"

5.  Accompanied by the picture below and followed by evil laughter:  "This is the perfect snowball.  It's glorious!"

 

Happy Hump Day, Er'rybody! Don't worry, warmer days are coming!  (Aren't they?  I mean, like, don't they have to be?)

A Somewhat Sappy Thank You

I had a hard time coming up with a topic to blog about this week.

Blogging, for me, is mainly an attempt to grow my fan base while also expressing myself through writing.  The fan base thing is a work in progress--while I still entertain dreams of being a successful, traditionally published author someday, I live in reality.  (Usually).  So I know the chances of that dream coming to fruition are small.

When I do receive encouragement online or in person to continue writing, I jump all over it.  I let it feed me.  I make more consistent efforts to share my writing with the world, because, well, people keep allowing me to continue.  (And by allowing me to continue, I guess I mean that no one is telling me to stop).  Also, sometimes people even praise my writing, insisting that I keep going, that I don't quit.  I'll never forget-- I was at a writing retreat a few years ago, and after having shared a couple pieces at open mics and during workshops, a stranger approached me and complimented me.  I remember blushing and stammering something about how it was the one time I was guaranteed an audience whom I could force to listen to me.  I said it as a joke, sort of, but after hundreds of rejections from literary agents, it was also a rather accurate statement. She seemed shocked that there was anyone out there who would feel differently than she did, and she reassured me that she had truly enjoyed listening to my words.

I don't say all that to fish for affirmation or gain any sympathy.  Just want to acknowledge that as a human... sometimes we need to know that what we're passionate about matters.  That someone else believes in what we do.

But the thing about writing for me, and I've mentioned this before, is that I would do it for an audience of one.  Who it is that's reading--that's rarely defined what it is I'm writing.

With blogging, however, it's different.  I'm aware of who is reading.  With my limited social media and elementary marketing skills, and all but nonexistent ability to make things look pretty... I consider myself fairly lucky that anybody comes by here at all.  :)

So I guess what I'm trying to say, really, is thank you.

Thanks for coming by my standard looking, sometimes random, little-engine-that-could-type blog.  Whether you're visiting once or often--I'm glad you're here.

Because while I would keep writing without you...

I wouldn't keep blogging.  And I know that there's nothing amazing, fancy, or even particularly practical about my little corner of the internet.

But I'm still so glad you took a few minutes to come read.  I happen to believe that someday, probably when we're face to face with Jesus, we're going to find out that those little things weren't just little things.

They were everything.

So thanks for taking a little bit of time and reading the musings of an aspiring author.  If I'm never known for my writing, I'd like to hope that I'll be remembered for my gratitude.  If not by thousands of fans, than by a few dozen supporters.  That is more than enough to fill my heart.  I've never been good at sticking with something that requires constant dedication.  Past attempts at blogging have fizzled and failed after a few months.  But this time, you've all inspire me to keep posting.

And while I couldn't come up with a good topic today, I think that actually turned out to be a good thing.  Because in my opinion, the world would be a way better place if we paused and thanked the people around us a little more often.

I appreciate each and every view I get.  And if you're reading this, I want you to know--I'm praying for you.  I don't believe in accidents.  I stopped believing in coincidences when I really found my faith, when I realized that Jesus wasn't just a guy who died on a cross a long time ago-- I discovered that He is a real, living, loving God who wants a personal relationship with me, and with you.  So wherever you're sitting, whoever you are, and whatever you're doing--I think that even in the small things, God doesn't believe in wasted time or insignificant moments.  I think it all matters, and I think you're reading these words because God put it on your to-do list today.  I know that even when we don't plan on things... God does.  I believe He wants to bless us even beyond the wildest dreams we have for ourselves.  So I thank you for coming here today, because I believe you are a part of the dream God has planted in my heart.  I want to pray that your dreams, whatever they are, are coming true for you.  Because while you've blessed me by stopping by, I pray that the greater blessing is for you.  That maybe you read something you needed to read today--not because I am an awesome writer.  But because I know a truly awesome God.  I pray for your health, and the health of those you love.  I pray for peace and joy in your life, and in your faith.

And a million times over--

I thank you.

I'm Dreaming of a White St. Patrick's Day...

Said no one ever.

And yet, that's exactly what we've got.

Poor Mother Nature.  She's really been getting beat up on Facebook these past couple days.  I've seen posts ranging from "Go Home, Mother Nature, You're Drunk," to "DIE WINTER DIE," to various other comments critiquing the Bi-Polar episodes the weather has been suffering from lately.

And I get it, I do.  They've already added thirty minutes on to every school day (which is sort of hilarious, because on the day of the scheduled implementation of extra time, school was ironically closed due to-- you guessed it-- inclement weather).  At this rate, summer vacation will begin for teachers at about the time we're ready to come back in August.

But, still.  How often, on St. Patrick's Day, do you get a chance to make one of these:

She looks bigger than she actually is.  (My mother decided she was a she.  I didn't really think about it, just assumed it was a guy.  I supposed that's sort of sexist of me, but hey, so is the term "Snowman."  And since she is wearing my hat--with sparkly glitter threads woven throughout, nonetheless-- I guess she is a girl.  Or a snowman who is very comfortable with his sexuality). 

Still, even though she's small, I'm pretty proud of her.  Granted, it has snowed approximately four million times so far this year, so much so that Kaliah asked me today if Delaware looks completely white from outer space.  But none of the previous snowstorms brought the good-for-packing snow.  I was beginning to think the problem was me, that I just wasn't talented enough to make the snow stick together.  I thought maybe I'd reached a new low in life, because, really... how hard should it be to make snow form a few snowballs?

But then this most recent snow arrived, and I could tell the difference as soon as Kaliah and I started rolling it.  It wasn't me, after all.  This snow, this was the sticky kind.  So behold:  The St. Patty's Day Snow Woman.

We'll call her Pat.

Mother Nature does get a bad rep when she goes on these wild mood swings.  (Funny how we assume snowmen are dudes but nature is a lady).  I guess she's entitled, though.  If I were responsible for the whole entire world's weather, it would be even more sporadic and crazy and unpredictable than it's been, even throughout this wacky winter.  And I wouldn't apologize for it, either.

After all, it's a big world out there.  There's a lot to keep up with.

And as for making up her mind and sticking to it?

Who are we to judge?  I can't tell you the number of decisions I'm juggling with right now, but I bet you've got just as many.  From the mundane, like deciding what to fix for dinner or what kind of damage control my hair is in need of, to the life changing--like is my career going where I want it to?

It's a miracle my child and I make it out the door fully clothed each morning, with all the stuff I'm thinking about.

I've been told I wear my heart on my sleeve, that I care too deeply and feel too much.

I know, of course, that this is true.  But my feelings are what make me who I am.  I don't always take criticism or rejection well (fun times on the publishing endeavors, let me tell you!), and I tend to overreact in all kinds of situations--to get too excited or take something too much to heart.  To dwell on something I've done wrong or to overanalyze the tiniest details.  But this same sensitivity makes me a better mother, a better listener, a better friend.  I'd like to hope a better writer.

And my child, my colleagues, and my friends know that the volcanic emotional eruption comes with the territory.  They know when to get out of the way and give me my space, or when I just need a hug.

So give nature a break.  Sure, she can't make up her mind lately.  She's been a bit moody--furious storms, smiling suns, gentle breezes, and God forbid--more snow--she's going through something, maybe, but who among us isn't?

You can't get the rainbows without the rain.

And you CAN make a snow woman on St. Patrick's Day!!

So while I'm not Irish, I do consider myself lucky.  More than lucky, actually--blessed.  I pray that all of you are blessed as well, and that if, much like Mother Nature, you're struggling to make up your mind about something--that you accept each day for what it's worth--another incredible day in your journey.  No matter how far you are from your destination, you are somewhere today.  And that's worth celebrating.

Just ask Pat.  I doubt she thought she'd be here in March, but here she is.

And that, my friends, is something more than even the luck of the Irish.

Things My Students Say...

So I'm teaching, or trying to, last week, when one of my angels has a light bulb moment.

"Ms. Meister!  Ohmigosh!"  she cries out, throwing her hand up in the air, but excitedly babbling on before I can bother to call on her.

"You know what I JUST realized?" she asks breathlessly, and, once again, before I can ask what, she rushes on, in spite of the fact that we're in the middle of the lesson and what she's about to say has absolutely nothing to do with anything we're learning about.

"You know how come time machines can't be real?  I just figured it out!  No one has invented one yet because, like, if they were already invented, people from the future would be like, totally visiting us all the time, right?  Don't ya think?"

The rest of the class and I are staring at her.  I think, collectively, I could have spoken for us all by saying...

"What?"

She was absolutely glowing in the realization she had vocalized with this epiphany.  I was still trying to figure out where on earth this line of thinking had come from.  It certainly had nothing to do with anything I had been talking about, anything anyone else had been talking about, or pretty much anything to do with anything.

Such is life in the seventh grade.  We should consider, perhaps, retitling my age group:  "6th Grade, Random Grade, 8th Grade."

I should consider, at least, that my student was thinking.  Granted, it had nothing to do with English Language Arts.

Or any other content area generally taught throughout the school day.

But thought did occur.

A random thought, but thinking none the less.

Things that make you go #wow.

Dog Days of What Felt Like The Never-Ending-Winter

This is my dog, Sue Yung.

She is guilty of many offenses.  The most recent one being that, last night, whilst I was asleep, with the bedroom door wide open and mere steps away from where Rashieme was still awake playing video games in the living room, Sue Yung sternly approached my bed and "Arfed," in the discreet but serious way that meant I had better get up in the middle of the night before she peed in my bedroom.

She is going on to be nine years old in the near future.  She was my first child, in a way, because in the brilliance of the third trimester of my pregnancy, I decided it was the perfect time to add a furry friend to our family.  That didn't work out so well.  Sue Yung ended up staying with my mother for several years, but now, Rashieme and I have been awarded sole custody.

Mainly because she has a bad habit of lazily standing or laying exactly where she shouldn't, which isn't exactly convenient in Mom and Mommom's househould, primarily because Mommom now uses a walker which Sue Yung has been known to attack from time to time.  The snarling and snapping usually occurs when the walker intrudes on her personal standing or snoozing space, which, again, is always in a convenient location, such as in the middle of a narrow hallway, or blocking the only bathroom door, or perhaps directly in front of the stove or refrigerator at meal time.

Sue Yung is a Lhasa Apso Shitzu mix.

Rashieme claims she is "A Dog."

Sue Yung was named by Rashieme after the female character who gets kidnapped in the Rush Hour movies.  I don't know why, but sometimes I do wish Sue Yung would get kidnapped.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

So we are a very diverse family.  Rashieme is African-American, I am white, our daughter is bi-racial, and, apparently, our dog is Chinese.

We also own a smaller dog, Diva, who is, in a word, Terrified.

She is the sweetest, most timid, eager-to-please creature I have ever met.  She is spoiled rotten and well-trained.

But she walks around with a perpetual look of Terror on her face.

Also, as pictured below, she was involved in a torrid romance with Kasey, and it seemed not to matter to either of them that both are girls and Kasey is, in fact, a cat.

 

 

So this post was all about my pets.  Those of you who know me know that I am really not a pet person these days.  I love them, don't get me wrong, but in mothering and housekeeping and working and all the other -ings of my days, they just don't take a top priority in my life.

Luckily, Kaliah is the most compassionate, animal-loving, constantly pet-tending child there could ever be.  She still wants to be a veterinarian or an animal rescuer when she grows up (though I'm hoping, eventually, she'll move more towards, you know, doctor.  Or lawyer.).

Of course, her manners of tending and attention sometimes result in the animals flocking to Rashieme and I to be rescued from her loving care... but her intentions are good, I assure you.

So here's to the household pets that love us, adore us, amuse us, and befriend us.  Who on the frigid days of winter cuddle up to warm us.  Who on the dog days of summer lie inspiringly motionless, sprawled out across the living room floor.

They are sparkles of light in my life, though I'm not a particularly passionate pet owner.  I enjoy those quiet moments of contentment sitting with or coddling my furry friends, infrequent as they may be.  I recognize the difference they make in my household, and am happy that I can provide them with a home in which they are adored by my daughter.

And slightly more than tolerated by me.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

The Backwards Watersliding Full Flip Head Dive

So it's March, and it might snow again tomorrow through Monday.

I think I speak for most of us when I say, aww, horse poop!

So, how about a taste of summer?  Today's True Tale of Everyday Crazy takes place on a warm summer day, in a kingdom not too far, far away, as we all remember glimpses of sunshine and humidity, and the heavy salt air of the ocean under the blazing heat of a cloudless sky.

The perfect setting for the Backwards Watersliding Full Flip Head Dive.

The Backwards Watersliding Full Flip Head Dive

            There is a small water park in Fenwick Island, Delaware, that my mother and I frequent with my daughter in the summertime.  It is a fun way to spend the day—lounging by the kiddie slides that will entertain a young child for hours, floating down the lazy river, and, assuming you are a little more adventurous, flying down the two curvy water slides that are the main attractions of the park.

            It used to be that you could select either a foam white mat or a round, yellow air-filled tube to slide on.  In recent years, the policy has been changed.  Now, adults may only slide on the mat, not the tube, and a giant red and white sign proclaims this at the area where you choose your riding device.  I feel that, most likely, I am single handedly responsible for this change.

            It was several years ago, on a perfect, cloudless, sunshiny day, and the three of us had enjoyed a long day of soaking up the rays, drifting down the lazy river, and, for Kaliah and I, riding the slides.  We’d been riding double, because she was only about three or four at the time.  It had been great fun, but, for some reason, I had it in my head that going down solo would be much more exhilarating.

            I was right.  Possibly, a little too right.

            Mom and Kaliah stood near the bottom of the slide, where the riders came bursting out of the chutes and flung into a shallow pool.  I bravely selected a yellow tube to slide down on, climbing the many wooden stairs leading to the top of the slide as quickly as I was able, the air-filled tube lightly tapping against my legs as I made my way to the very top.  Though it was nice out, it was later in the day, and much of the crowd had already left.  I didn’t have to wait very long before the life guard at the top blew the whistle.  I planted my butt firmly in the middle of the doughnut hole and launched myself down the slide.

            What I noticed immediately was that sliding solo was not only much quicker than riding double, there was far less control involved.  Almost instantly, as the tube slipped and slid around corners, the raft began spinning in wild circles.  Though there was no time to really think about it, I automatically began craning my neck to see behind me as I was careening down the slide backwards, and more importantly, I began trying to shift my body weight around in order to maneuver myself back into a forward facing position.

            It was to no avail.

            Though the entire experience couldn’t have lasted more than six seconds, it was a very panicked six seconds, as I twisted my shoulders, dangled my legs, clutched the tube’s handles, and shimmied and shook in every way possible to try to avoid hitting the water backwards (my mother, who, on principle, refused to ride anything more exciting than a merry-go-round, had apparently passed on her irrational fear of riding a waterslide down to me, citing the reason that “she might hit her head on the bottom”).

            Perhaps it wasn’t so irrational after all.

            On about the seventh second, I had managed to reposition myself into a near sideways position, just before the ride ended and the tube hit the water.  I gave one more desperate twist of my weight, trying madly to avoid going in backwards.  I remembered catching sight of my mother, holding my daughter, and watching their eyebrows raise and eyes widen like cartoon characters.  And that was the last image I had before tightly squeezing my eyes shut, as, in spite of my best efforts, the slide spit me out backwards at break-neck speed.

            I’m sure it was quite a spectacle, mainly because my mother confirmed that, yes, indeed, it was.

            As I’d been trying to flip myself frontwards, my legs were sprawled out widely, spread eagle style, and the moment the tube hit the pool, I was catapulted over into a backwards, air-born somersault, flipping over completely (legs still spread wide open as in a cheerleader’s toe touch position, FYI), holding onto the tube handles for dear life, feeling them ripped away as my head made contact with the water and the tube shot out of my hands and sailed through the air.  The pool waves rushed over me as I rocketed head-first to the very bottom, banging the side of my noggin on the concrete floor of the pool, gurgling and gasping and even giggling underwater at the sheer stupidity of the situation as I was bounced back upwards, mass of wet, clumped hair clinging to my face as I sputtered to the surface, welcomed by Kaliah’s “Wow!” and the guffawing laughter of, out of all people, the lifeguard.

            “Mommy did a flip!” Kaliah cried in wonderment.

            “She sure did,” my mother managed to agree, as she was also suffering from a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

            “I hit my head on the bottom,” I choked out, laughing and stupefied.

            “Do it again!” Kaliah urged.

            But alas, that was quite enough sliding for me for that day.  Also, there is absolutely a zero percent chance that I would ever be able to duplicate that accidental feat.

            If someone had been recording that on their phone or camera, maybe I could have won America’s Funniest Home Videos, or, at the very least, went viral on YouTube.

            Or maybe I should just be thankful that my bikini top remained in its correct position, and I suffered no known brain damage, all while managing to give the lifeguard, whom I figured would have seen it all, a story to tell at happy hour that evening.

            You only live once, after all, and if you, my friend, have never attempted a Backwards Watersliding Full Flip Head Dive…

            Well, then, sir or madam, you might not be fully living.

 

Mom and I at the scene of the accident.

Fiction, Or Non-Fiction? Whom Do I Love More?

I once read that a mark of an immature writer pursuing publication was experimenting in multiple genres.  The blogger maintained that a writer who hadn't yet found his or her niche was probably not ready or mature enough to be published until (s)he found what (s)he was really good at.

I disagree.

Of course, I get it from a marketing and business perspective.  You spend all this time trying to build a name for yourself, to gain a following.  You give the people what they want, and you can't just go changing it up on them.

But I actually think a willingness to experiment shows a writer's creativity and flexibility.  Maybe that's just my personal opinion, as I'm a writer who dabbles in both fiction and non-fiction.

I've recently been querying my non-fiction project, but I have two completed fiction novels that I've currently shelved, since the literary agents aren't exactly banging down my door.

In the face of rejection on my latest project, I've been thinking a lot as to what kind of writer I'd really prefer to be known as, assuming I eventually "make it" in the traditional publishing industry.

Fiction was my first love.  I've always been imagining characters and situations, way back in elementary school, when I used to stare out the window dreaming instead of listening to lessons on long division (sorry, math teachers).  I still remember writing a notebook length first novel (complete with illustrations) about a teenage protagonist named Anna who happened to meet an alien when his spaceship landed in her backyard.  I was in the fifth-grade at the time, and my best friend Kristin and I had spent hours of our lives designing and drawing characters and composing stories about them, a whole high school soap opera world of them.

I was also "published" for the very first time way back in fourth grade, when I penned "The Christmas Tree Mystery," a rhyming narrative holiday poem that our local paper, The Delaware Wave, was kind enough to print after my teacher submitted it to them.  

When I started writing "seriously" in late high school and early college, fiction felt more natural.  Though often inspired by real life events, I liked the control I had over creating my own endings, doing as I saw fit with the characters I had so easily dreamt up.

My foray into non-fiction was not nearly as organic.  Aside from an occasional memoir assignment, I never really wrote about my life (unless you count lousy teenage poetry and rambling rants in long lost diaries and journals).  And then I took Dr. Vince Puma's non-fiction course as a junior at Flagler College.  And it forever changed the way I thought of myself as a writer.  At the time, I was still writing far more fiction, but it was under his instruction that I discovered the sheer joy of capturing a real memory, coloring it with my emotions and reflections, and sharing it with both those who had been there to experience that memory with me and those who were hearing it for the very first time.  Dr. Puma, more than any other professor, encouraged me and inspired me.  "I expect to see your name in print some day," he'd scrawled in his barely legible handwriting.  I read it over and over again, this near-sacred compliment penciled messily onto the bottom of his comments on my final assignment for his course.

I am still trying to make him proud, to live up to that expectation.

But more than that, I write to please myself.  And I love both, fiction and non-fiction.  I am unable to choose between the two.  Perhaps if I ever get published in one genre, I'll decide to focus more on that one.  Maybe I'll continue to write both, one as a hobby, one as a career.  Or maybe that blogger was right.  Maybe I should focus on honing one, rather than dreamily drifting from genre to genre.

Or, maybe not.  Maybe I'll write under a pseudonym for the second genre.

Or maybe not worry about it.  After all, you can't lose sleep over an imaginary problem.  I'd have to be published in one genre before I could worry about marketing or reinventing myself in the second genre.

All that to say, I'd love to hear your opinion.

I titled this blog honestly, wanting to feel free to share my love of writing events both real and imagined.  But as I was glancing back over it, I realized I've been focused on my non-fiction, probably because that's what my latest efforts to acquire an agent have revolved around.

So because this blog has been inadvertently almost entirely composed of non-fiction, my second love to which I've been far more attentive to lately, here's a snippet from one of my book-length fiction works.  It's been shared on facebook before--I posted it to celebrate reaching the 300 page mark, the longest work I've ever stuck with--so if you've read it already, you are dismissed from my musings for the day!  But first:  What do you think?  Is it possible to publish in both genres?  Which do you enjoy reading more?  Am I stronger in one than the other?  Those of you who've not yet seen it, take a look, then join in the conversation:

Matthew
I heard the grating metal scraping against the concrete floor as the barred gate of my cell slid open. I lay on the hard cot, head pounding, staring straight ahead at the dingy wall as Detective Arnold's voice sounded behind me, “Mr. McBride? Are we in a bit more civilized mood yet?”

I closed my eyes against his voice, running my hand over my face. I needed to shave. I needed to bathe. Bits of broken pebble and tiny stones came off onto my fingertips. At least I wasn't bleeding anymore. Though it felt like blood was still caked onto my face, my fingers came away dry, and not red.


“Mr. McBride?”

“Did you come to book me?” I asked hoarsely, not bothering to sit up or even roll over to face him. Some other town cop had brought me in here. I'd stopped fighting them in the fort parking lot, allowing them to load me in the police cruiser while I cried like a little bitch. The two extra officers it had taken to bring me to the ground hovered about anxiously until Detective Arnold waved them away, sending me on ahead to the station with only the red-headed cop to bring me in. He'd guessed correctly I was done resisting. The fight had all gone out of me. Nevertheless, I'd been allowed my phone call—I'd selected Tabitha, figuring she was the more reliable, with the choice being between her or Mikey—but through the entire process, the Irish guy had kept me in the handcuffs, not trusting me enough to unlock them. I guess he didn't want me to get any ideas.

I heard his footsteps pressing closer, pausing what must have been only a short distance from me. I still wouldn't give him the satisfaction of turning to look at him.

“Maura Taylor. June 15, 1984.”

I waited for some further explanation, but he left it at that. The silence continued to stretch on between us until, finally, I heard the soft shuffling of the last remaining step he was taking to close the distance between us. I felt my body tense involuntarily as I could hear him breathing above me, feel him bending down toward me. To my surprise, he inserted a key into the side of my handcuffs. A simple twist later, and I relaxed as I gingerly slid my wrists out of the cuffs.

“Who's Maura Taylor?” I reluctantly asked, pulling myself into a sitting position and sliding over on the cot.

To my surprise, Detective Arnold sank down onto the cot beside me. He'd left the cell door wide open. For a brief moment, I considered darting to my feet and scrambling out of there. Running back to the car and driving somewhere far, far away.

But it was just for a fleeting moment, and then the Detective began to talk.

“Maura Taylor. She was a year younger than Melody when I was assigned to her case. The first missing person case I ever had in which the vanished person was an adult, not a kid. She disappeared on June 15, 1984. It was also the first missing person case I was involved in that, to this day, remains unsolved.”

The big man shifted a little, reached into his pocket, removed a wallet. I sat silently as he passed me a faded picture, creased and ragged around the edges. It was of a beautiful woman... a girl who had maybe just graduated college. She had wavy golden hair, a shy smile. Dark eyes. She looked enough like Melody to have been related. A cousin, maybe, or perhaps even a sister.

I glanced up at him. “You still carry this around with you?”


He nodded. “I still see her. Everywhere I go. I wanted to solve that case so bad. I was young then, and she was my age. I couldn't understand how somebody with their whole life ahead of them could just... disappear. So I carry this picture, even though I have no idea what she'd really look like now, if she's even still alive. But I can't help it. She's stayed with me all these years, and so, I think I've caught a glance of her in the grocery store, or at an intersection. Any number of places. By the time I get my wallet out to check the picture, I realize it's just my eyes playing tricks on me. The girl I've seen looks like Maura back then, but she's too young to be her now. Or the woman I've spotted is the right age, but when I get the photo out, I see that even allowing for all the years that have passed and how much she must have changed in her age, that the woman on the street simply doesn't look like Maura Taylor.”

I sat, staring at Maura Taylor's smile. I wondered if she had a boyfriend or a brother who hung up fliers with her picture on it all over town.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Maura was my first unsolved missing person case. She wasn't my last. Tamara Drake, nineteen years old. She disappeared on November 14, 1997. Nicole Evans, thirteen. Missing since July 4, 1999. Edward Davis. Sixty-seven. Wandered away from a senior citizens home on March 18, 2000. Emily Walsh. Just six years old. Missing since January 12, 2002.”

I shook my head. “I don't... I don't understand.”

“They all stay with me!” Detective Arnold was screaming, suddenly. He snatched Maura's photo away from me, pounded a fist against the cot for emphasis.
“Do you hear me, kid? They all stay with me. I am very aware that when I fail, I not only fail them. I fail their families. The people who love them. You don't think I get that? You don't think I know that?”

I stared silently down at my hands, clasped in my lap, watching a tear drip down over the puffy purple bruises encircling my wrists.

“I get it. I get it more than anyone else. I understand that you are mad, frustrated, furious even. But you don't get to tell me I'm not doing anything. You don't get to decide that I don't care.”

“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I'm sorry, I didn't know.”


The detective nodded, staring straight ahead now. “We do want to do a search. We had to wait for 72 hours to pass in order to have any chance at convincing the chief that this wasn't a voluntary runaway. And then with the second storm coming, there's no way they'll spare the manpower. We can do a search when Hurricane Fred is over.”

“But then...” I stumbled. “What are the chances of finding her, then? If she's still out there... when a hurricane is coming? What are the chances of finding her... alive?” I hated the sound of the last word, struggled to even get it out. I heard it empty and echoing in the tiny cell. Was there any chance she was still alive?

Detective Arnold turned his glance my way, eyes paternal, sad, but truthful. “Matt,” he said. “It may be that this isn't necessarily a search for Melody right now... so much as it is a search for... well, a search for her remains.”