In honor of Valentine's Day ~ 'She fell in Love' - short story

She fell in love.


On a rainy Autumn day she fell in love with him.  They talked and held hands and her heart was broken by her capacity to love him. He smiled into her eyes and said he loved her, and she cried when he left, closing out the afternoon with a torrential storm of tears. She took her limping heart tenderly home and earnestly tried to forget what she felt, filling the days and hours and minutes with everything but him. But always the tug, always the sense of something just missed.

Do you know the kind of love that tugs at the deepest part of your heart, slows it’s beating, and turns it into an achingly beautiful sonnet written just for you?

Have you wandered through the dark of the night, your love consuming you, your chest rising and falling to the rhythm of its melody as it washes over you in powerful dreamlike waves? Have you reasoned with it, analyzed it, twisted and contorted it, asking in vain for release?

In the Spring she tried to tell him how she felt, but her natural capacity to express herself failed her and he just smiled teasingly, unknowingly; He was lightness itself when it came to this love of hers, like a feather floating up and around the subject without actually landing and settling on anything. This should have been torture for her, but by this point he had become a dear friend and she realized that what he had to share with her, whatever that was, must be enough.

Years passed.

She is older and sure of herself, bursting with self-knowledge and control, her patchwork heart tucked deeply within the protective exterior of those mocked-up defenses called ‘maturity’.

So they meet again and he is much the same, funny and guarded and lonely. Still, there is a brittle transparency about him that was not there before, and she feels that tug, compelled to soothe him, comfort him, love him.  Involuntarily his heart reaches out to hers and asks for what he is missing.

She sees him, you know. She does. So strong and careful, so resilient, yet she sees how empty he is in this moment and her heart turns, wrenched with tenderness.

She fell in love with him in the Autumn and she loves him still. Her hand is out, extended, and if he likes she will walk with him a quiet while until he is restored, her dear, dear friend.

'HIM' Short story - part three

photo credit

Copper colored leaves swept gently against the glass of my bedroom window, and the early morning light, that wonderful fresh-washed light you get after a good storm, streamed in steadily, waking me in the best way. I sleep with my window open year round, so my bedroom smelled of late Autumn; fresh, frosty, almost spicy.

I lay very still in my deep, velvety bed, my eyes closed, and let wakefulness steal over me slowly. If he had been here, there would have been a leisurely morning snuggle to look forward to, followed by a walk together down to the coffee shop for a latte and a paper. Before last night, this thought would have left me absolutely miserable for the rest of the morning, but today was totally different. This morning I was finally able to accept what my instincts have been telling me every day for the past two years. He is still alive.

I could barely breathe as I lay there and let that realization percolate slowly. I don’t know where he has been, I don’t know what happened to him, nor why he has been so long in coming home; I don’t need to know those things. I just know that he has finally come back to me.

The morning that followed was surreal. I rose and showered, a small smile as I washed my hair with his favorite pear scented shampoo, and shaved my legs, something I had neglected to do more often than not since he had left. I dressed, slipping into my long-legged jeans, the faded ones I’ve had since college, the ones he says make me look so tall and slender and elegant. Donning one of his flannel shirts over my soft grey long-sleeved tee, and thick wooly socks, I padded out to the kitchen and started the coffee pot.

I spent the morning going through the things they sent me when he went missing. The official notice that he was Missing in Action Presumed Dead, delivered by his Commanding Officer on a sunny Fall day full of brittle heartbreak.  I pulled his dress uniform out of the closet and slowly unzipped the black plastic bag I bought to store it in, black so I wouldn’t have to see it hanging crisp and white every time I walk into the closet, black because they told me he was dead. Crushing the jacket to my face I inhaled deeply, searching for any remnant of his unique smell, his spicy after-shave, his integral ‘maleness', but no matter how many times I’ve done this, it still smells like the dry cleaners have just finished with it. His kit bag unzipped, I repeated the ritual laying out of his things, things he would have used every day that he was away from me, serving our country. It used to send me into near hysterics to picture his strong thick fingers wrapped around the razor or toothbrush that I was holding, but today, by touching his things, I just feel even more connected to him.


By late morning I am tucked in the wicker chair on the deck, wrapped in a thick grey sweater, onto my third mug of creamy coffee. I feel quiet inside, like what I imagine the center of a storm must be like. I should feel stormy, shouldn’t I? But there is such a peace with this Knowing, no rush, no sense of urgency, no feeling that I must rush about town, hunting for him. I Know and that knowledge calms me like nothing else could. My mouth has become possessed overnight; secret smiles work the withered muscles of my face, and it feels so alien that I cannot stop myself from repeatedly reaching up and touching my cheeks, feeling the smile lines, which only makes me smile even wider.

He’s coming soon.

In the trees the squirrels jump from branch to branch, stashing their hard won winter forage into every nook they find. The late birds are happy today, and sing especially for me. They know this is a special day.

I feel like I have awoken from a long dream and am fully awake for the first time in a long, long time.
I need to be busy so I bundle up and head outside. I cut the grass, probably the last cut of the year, it grows so slowly now. 

And I wait. 

I barrow the cuttings up the drive and into the compost heap.

Still I wait. 

I rake leaves fallen from the Japanese maples that line the drive into a giant pile and add the branches fallen from the storm last night to the pile. I start a smudge fire, inhaling the sharp, smoky aroma, loving the snap and crackle as the branches ignite and perfume the area with scents of sap and evergreen. Leaning on the rake, I stare into the fire. And wait.

And then it happens.

Everything stills expectantly. I raise my head, and for the last time, I gaze down the curve of the drive, straining to see around the bend, searching. There is a rushing sound in my ears, and I realize I am holding my breath.

I see the copper top of his hatless head first, as slowly, unevenly, he walks around the bend. Head bowed, he’s watching where he walks carefully. He’s limping quite badly, enough to warrant a cane, something I did not notice last night. I’m so quiet, still holding my breath, willing him to raise his beautiful head. When at last he does, he sees me and stops abruptly, teetering a bit. We pause, eyes locked, and with a slow smile, he continues towards me. It’s everything I can do not to rush over to him but I stay where I am, just as I always have, waiting. When finally he reaches me, I see that he is much thinner than the last time I saw him, making him seem even taller than he is, and his face is very much more worn.

“So,” he says and his smile stirs me as no other’s. I can barely contain the fountain of emotion that washes over me, as I slowly reach up and place the palm of my hand on his rough cheek.

“You’ve been a while,” I say smiling up into his eyes. His free hand comes up to rest in a similar position on my face and with his thumb he gently brushes a smudge of dirt from the tip of my nose.

“Yes.” His deep voice catches and my eyes fill. “But then, you knew I’d be back, didn’t you my love.”






If you missed the first two installments of this short story, you can find them here:
part one
part two

This story is dedicated to all the men and women who risk all to serve our country, and to those who wait paitiently, hopefully, at home, risking just as much.  Never Forget.

Monday's Child - 1

Mr. Rabbit
Has a habit
Of tender carrots stealing

Mr. Squirrel
His tail unfurled
Objects to this with feeling

Mr. Crow
And Mrs. Crow
Look on with obvious longing

Miss Sweet Robin
Head a bobbin’
Resumes melodious songing


Mr. Farmer
And Mrs. Farmer
Welcome them all with grace

One and All
In Earth’s Grand Hall
They each have found their place

~JCM





Hello All.
I was invited to join a new writing group for children over at http://childrensverse.blogspot.com/


There will be a prompt of some sort and then you write a short verse or story. This weeks' prompt was the lovely picture above, so I wrote a little poem to go along with it.

If you are interested in joining this group please do click on the link above and check it out. It promises to be great fun!

Smiles