Pens and paper

Yet another gloomy morning, the weather hasn’t been on the bright side these past weeks. The smell of freshly ground coffee infuses the air, its spicy and chocolatey aromas warming up Kyle’s senses. She brings the cup to her lips and takes a sip before licking the froth rushing down the side of it.

Staring at the lonely piece of paper on her fridge—a picture of her and her mom, the last one they took together—bleak thoughts begin to numb her limbs. Kyle’s biological mother, Claire Emerson, died just about a year ago.

Conceived during an inebriated case of lust, Kyle had been put into the caring hands of the Davises. Claire had not been one to want to handle such responsibilities, placing her daughter for adoption before she was even pushed out of her shelter. Yet, she had felt the need to be involved in the baby’s life. Selfish, some had said, but that had not mattered to the couple—they had a soft spot for the young mother since their introduction. It went as far as to have “Emerson” printed onto the newborn’s birth certificate.

Kyle had just turned 14 when she found out about sharing genetics with Claire. Memories began to flood her mind, just like they did every now and then—I was graduating from middle school, how cute. The woman was wearing a summer dress, navy wildflowers printed on ivory linen, that fell just above her knees… amber curls peeking out of a floppy straw hat, her pale skin blushing from the blazing sun. “A good friend of the family” they said. Kyle let out a chuckle. It seems like it was just yesterday…

It had taken quite a while for Kyle to embrace the idea—puberty bringing about its own set of challenges—but teenage years had also helped her learn about forgiveness, giving Claire and herself a chance to build some sort of relationship.

Claire and her wife had gone on a hiking trip last summer, nothing unusual since they lived in a cabin within Lingerwood Grove and frequently took part in such trips—except for they never made it back from that one. The women had been missing for 37 days before their bodies were found, barely recognizable.

Kyle had moved to the cabin a few weeks after the funerals—a gift from the deceased. She owned a property in the suburbs, a house that went back on the market after she had spent a few months in the woods. The cabin had become her haven, a place where she could safely feel every bit of emotion—the perfect retreat for the writer that she was. Luckily, the house was assigned new owners within a week, and it sold for nearly 30 000$ more than the asking price—which was quite surprising since the only upgrade that had been made was a toilet with a built-in bidet...With all the fees and expenses covered, the sale had made her savings account 20 000$ wealthier—that should be enough to keep me alive for a while... Kyle had thought.

Months had gone by now, and all I’ve been doing since I moved in here is write. There were the occasional hikes and campfires, that goes without saying, but she spent most of her time laying words on paper in a vain attempt to have content worth publishing—she couldn’t afford to waste any more ink on writings that yield such measly earnings. I’ll be digging up my savings soon enough if no decent work is released! Maybe taking a break from writing would help... would my mind survive 24 hours without pouring itself out on a sheet of paper though? Kyle took another sip of coffee and glanced at the open space around her, spirits making their way even deeper—the sofa, the kitchen table, the countertops, the floor… things were piling up on every piece of furniture and other surfaces available. What a mess! I need to clean. No picking up pens today, clutter is what I’m getting a grip on.

And so the cleaning began. Kyle was folding a mountain of clothes when her phone rang—it was her aunt, Claire's sister.

“Hi, Charlotte.”

“Hello sweetie, how have you been doing?”

“Quite good actually”, Kyle lied.

“That's great, I'm glad to hear!

Listen, your uncle and I were wondering if you went through your mom’s stuff? We’d like to have a look at what’s left.”

“I didn’t have time to do that yet, I’m sorry...

It’s just the writing, it’s keeping me so busy.

I'll let you know when I get it done.”

Truth was, Kyle had been avoiding that project like the plague—moving into her mom’s home had already been a challenge in itself. It’s almost been a year now, might be time to face the facts, Kyle. She might need a pen and a notebook after this. Or a drink.

Kyle made her way up to the mezzanine. She took a deep breath before opening the closet doors—there they were, Claire and her wife’s belongings, put away in nicely stacked plastic bins. Most of the women’s possessions were sold and donated a few months after their deaths, but the family had kept some of their items—ones that could hold sentimental value—for later sorting.

Kyle took the first bin out and gently lifted up the lid, releasing a cloud of a familiar scent. Notes of vanilla and lavender, with a hint of sandalwood, made their way into Kyle’s nostrils. A wave of nostalgia hit the center of her being—a brick wall collapsing into the pit of her stomach; a fist of scorching steel repeatedly smashing against her rib cage. Calm down Kyle, you’re okay. Just breathe in, and breathe out. Find something to soothe.

Kyle was aware that she needed to seek nature's beauty in order to comfort her psyche—even as a child, she would sneak out to the nearest wooded trail, escaping her parents' yells and foul language. Overwhelmed, she took a step back and, leaning on the banister, looked down at the living room. She had a view of the exposed greenery—thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sine qua non for any nemophilist.

She returned to face the source of her aches after staring at the trees for a few moments, some weight off her shoulders.

With her mom's straw hat covering the top of her head, Kyle had just flipped through the last pages of the photo albums when she noticed the bottom of the bin was finally visible. She reached for the remaining items—a tiny burgundy bag and a small black book.

The velvety pouch made a clink as she pulled on each side to open it. Inside were two rings of tarnished silver, one garnished with a pea-sized amber stone—Claire’s favourite. I bet these are their engagement rings… Kyle tried on the one she assumed was her mom’s, her frown fading into a grin—they’re so pretty.

Last but not least, the notebook—no bigger than a pocket edition, its cover battered but still keeping the pages together. Damn, I LOVE notebooks! Kyle spread the book’s pages, exposing lines of jet black ink etched onto creamy, silky sheets.

This… this is great! She turned the page, eager to read more.

CE… That stands for “Claire Emerson”, doesn’t it? And it went on—not a single page was left bare. Wait… My mom was a poet?! Well, that would explain the urge I have to write even my grocery list in verses…

Note from the author

Kyle finally published her first book shortly after. It included some of Claire Emerson’s poems with, of course, her now-famous CE.