She

Train

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With her foot up on the heater-baseboard which ran along the wall, and her elbow on her raised knee, she cupped her chin in her hand and stared out of the window. The rain was coming down in sheets now, and if it did not stop within the next two hours, she would surely be drenched by the time she got home. Not that she had forgotten an umbrella. That would never happen. But between her overly large suitcase, her bulging cosmetic bag, her laptop bag, the duffel bag with extra shoes, and the shopping bag with gifts and snacks, she would have no hand free for such a contraption. Over the decades, she had tried to constrain the amount of things she took on such trips, but no amount of inconvenience and hassle with her luggage had been able to cure her of her deeply rooted abandonment issues. “Be Prepared!” was a stain on every fiber of her being.

Now she was simply grateful for this window, literally and figuratively: the bracket of time to herself to shift into neutral and coast along for a couple of hours, as well as the cold, grey, square sheet of glass to lean her head against and be lulled by its monotonous stream of scenery. In the same way the fields and buildings and trees could be seen coming gradually toward her from the distance only to rush by and disappear behind her, so too did the events of the week pass review in her tired brain. Just as grey, just as monotonous.

It was the same old refrain. The weeks of frantic and thorough preparation hadn’t positioned her into a state of confidence, only exposed her to the infinite sea of knowledge, skills, and possibilities that she did not yet master. The closer the deadline came, the tighter the knot in her stomach grew, and the more ant-acids she took before going to bed. The migraines that plagued her on the eve of her presentations now only seemed to come when she addressed an entirely new C suit. Not knowing how high this new bar might be always left her feeling wide open to her darkest opposing line-backer with the number, “Who do you think you are?” The end-zone seemed miles away on such projects, and she felt foolish being on the field at all, let alone thinking she could run the ball, or even score.

But she always did. Though the presentations themselves felt like an out-of-body experience, afterwards, she knew she had slain it. She would hit a homer almost every time. Her clients were pleased. She would be invited back. Business was growing. And yet none of these facts managed to stick to her lapel. They ricocheted off of her like a bird flying into a window, with only a thud and a dead bird to show for it. After some polite conversation with her clients, she would excuse herself and return to her room for some rest before she began the arduous logistics of returning her entire wardrobe and kitchen sink to her place of residence. In that hour or so before she checked out, she would wilt into the hotel bed as all the tension and stress would drain out of her. Then with legs now made of rubber and arms that had become mostly useless appendages, she somehow managed to get all of her luggage into the elevator, then onto the street, down the five blocks to the station, and onto the train.

(in 5)

Prompt: Stormy Winds

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Sometimes it was like a gentle breeze. And just like that, she would put herself right in the middle of it, close her eyes, and let it wash over her, caress her thirsty skin, her thirsty soul. In these soft moments, she would turn toward it and let every inch of her face be kissed. Then she would soften too. She liked it when she could be soft.

Other times, it was like nothing. Like sitting in a motorless sailboat on the Chesapeake, dead in the water. Sails hanging like a fickle and wilted Hydrangea. Nothing. Just hotness. Just a visible shoreline with no movement toward it. Just sitting there in your own little boat with nothing but yourself and your boat, and all the things still not done. Pitiful.

Other times it was like a whole lot’a somethin’. Too much somethin’. Like it was on steroids, whipping everything up, setting everything in commotion. Not a far cry from those stormy winds that got up to terrifying and chasing the fall leaves around the garden. Those times it was like trying to catch a hurricane in a shot glass. Those times she could get just a glimpse of how much more of everything there was, and it was frightening. Those times she thought it better just to shut the hell up.

And sometimes… sometimes, it was amazing. It would come in strong, like it had purpose or something, and those sails would be up, just as strong and determined, pulled in taut and razor sharp. Then things would get going! Hold on! They would fly over those choppy circumstances! Those times made her feel like the queen of the Regatta! It didn’t happen much any more, but that’s what she was always hoping for…

Yeah, it’s about like that

with her and God

Sometimes

PROMPT: “In her beloved, bright-red convertible her journey began.”

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She loved this car. And she had earned it. Senior year had been grueling. The AP courses would have been manageable on their own, but volunteering in the shelter, writing the college essays, holding the champion title as Coxswain of her crew, and placing second in nationals with the debate team kept her in constant motion. Seven days a week and not one moment to stop. To be still. To listen to something other than the voices of the adults around her who knew best. Coach Chris, always drilling them that “Winning is the whole shebang!” And “Sync your team or sink yourself!” Her parents constantly managing her schedule, checking in if she had finished assignments or written thank you notes, giving pointers for making good impressions during college interviews, offering last minute pep-talks while chauffeuring her from one obligation to the next. Everyone of their efforts blaring as loudly as through her cox-box of their need for her to be the perfect child. She was never alone. Never was there not something she had to do. Never was there not an expectation that had to be met, no, rather exceeded. Only those few precious seconds between her head hitting the pillow at 9:30 every night and sleep engulfing her with one quick swallow, in those precious, fleeting moments, something would flutter on the rim of her consciousness, something curious, something dangerous. If she could just focus… but before she new it, the 4:45 am alarm would rudely summon her into motion again.

And then, there she was. The day of graduation. When she came down that morning for breakfast, before they would all leave together for the ceremony, her dad seamed angry. He was telling mom that kids had egged the house. That they would have to clean it up before they left or it would bake onto the siding. He motioned for everyone to come out and see the damage, ushering her ahead. She stepped out of the front door with the rest of the family close behind, and there, directly in front of the house, was a bright red and white Mini Cooper convertible with a huge white bow on top. When she turned around, she saw her mom and sister holding their phones, filming her stunned reaction and joyful tears. Her dad held up the keys and said, “You earned it!”

That was a month ago. After a week of graduation parties, the family went to their summer house at the Outer Banks for three weeks. She had never felt so free. She, in the driver’s seat. Her own hands on the steering wheel. The one place besides the toilet where she was alone with no other voices drowning out her own. How many times had people had to honk behind her because she was just basking in the brief silence and rest that a stop-light could offer. Now the top was down, both the trunk and the back seat were full of the things she would need for the rest of the summer in DC for the obligatory internship before heading farther north to Connecticut at the end of August. Again she was lost in her thoughts, which seemed almost like a new acquaintance after all those years of back-seating it. Here at the junction where I-40 heads west off of the I-95 that would take her all the way to DC, again the impatient commuters scolded her. Usually the angry, grating noise jolted her out of her time-suspension, snapped her back to her “on-setting,” reminded her to stay in-line, “in-sync,” just as she kept her crew obeying a navigation they hadn’t chosen. But this time she could not be pulled from the aimless, lazy river of her mind. This time the incessant bleating of their horns triggered something else. Something did snap. She heard it loud and clear. It was the same pop that came from opening a jar of her mother’s peach-preserves. She engaged her blinker, flipped the bird at the cars behind her, slowly pulled on to I-40, and in her beloved, bright red convertible, her journey began.