Silhouette and Shadow

I am the space under the stairs. A hidden nest under the eaves. Pause between words spoken during difficult conversation. A yellowed photograph. Reminder of before, when posing in time was a moment, and not an event. I reside within and between furrows and wrinkles. Deep sighs and passion pleas. I am a secret and a scream. The treasure and the tragedy. I am the space under the stairs.

The author's words speak to me. As I grip the little black notebook, my nerves calm a bit. Reading always helps me. It was my childhood escape. Pages were wings I could put on anytime I opened a book. They enabled me to fly away and experience new worlds. I could become anyone.

Ebony ink decorates the notebook's soft ivory pages, with thoughts that make me feel less alone. I continue to read:

SAMHAIN - Branches of the family tree are bent out of shape. Gnarled limbs weighted down by years of separation and sorrow. No shiny green adorns brittle stems. Cozy nests that once cradled new life have long been abandoned. Decaying roots hide under a scarred trunk. Some wonder if a falling tree really exists if no one is present to witness its downfall. No one speaks of the trees that are destroyed slowly. One bough at a time.

Yes, I understand perfectly, is my last thought, as I fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

I found him in aisle 9, spaghetti sauce and summer coordinates. Our eyeballs met over $3.00 flip flops.

I smile for the first time that day, after reading the poem entitled MODERN LOVE. What a great way to meet! My heart flutters a bit, as I read the next page, a poem called SAMBUCA:

Many moons ago, I discovered life and passion, lurking between clinking glasses of licorice flavored potion. He was beyond alluring. Our chemistry a beautifully strange mix. As each clear cube dissolved, milky liquid ghosts haunted my glass. With each aromatic sip, I banished phantoms of my past. Beneath a sparkling evening perfumed with star anise, dwelled depth and desire, found in the unfurling of his kiss.

Such beautiful imagery! I feel so much hope when I read these words. New love is so exciting! As I place the notebook in my bedside drawer, I feel lighter than I have in quite a while.

Has it really been ten days since I have been able to open this book, I think, as the glossy cover catches my eye. Fresh from a recent nap, I open and begin to read:

A hollowness invades my being. Emptiness that should be filled with new life so wanted and wished for. Echoes trapped in femininity's plight. Awaiting the fullness of a soul, to reside in a stark and lonely space. My heart flashes colorful neon against the darkness of dashed hopes. Womb: VACANCY.

A large tear slides down my cheek, that is still warm from afternoon sleep canopied by sunlight. The powerful words replay in my mind, as my heart aches for someone I do not know. Her pain outlines every word. I am hesitant to turn the page, but I know I will:

Sleep eludes me. I cannot catch it. Deafening silence, except for the delicate ting of windblown chimes. My feline wanders stalking shadows. Suddenly, she starts primping, finding cool dignity on the back of a wingback chair, her diva status intact. The written word, usually my quick lullaby, only eyelid props tonight. Shiny lives depicted on glossy pages, make me feel lonely and awake.

Oh, I can relate to every word! Except for the cat. I am allergic. A huge yawn overtakes me as the little book slips from my hand, and I greet a long and peaceful sleep.

The next day, notebook in hand, I decide to read a bit before lunch:

BARREN - Been here before. An old path worn. Recognize the markers. Remember the signs. Earthly map of mine. Never changes course.

Sad words, but I like the way she spells out the title with the first letter of each sentence. Clever. I turn the page:

BURYING JOSEPH - Four bedrooms and two baths. Circa 1983. Modern roof. Vintage fixtures. Nice neighbors. Lots of memories. Seller's market now. Our showings say otherwise. Sixty-one days and no takers. Price cut is suggested. Father Bryson has another idea. Palm Sunday and smudges still fresh. We dig up a tiny patch of front yard and drop him in. Our reward is a sold sign. Lives packed. A palm shaded two bedroom condo awaits. Down-sizing.

It has been a few days since I have had time to open the book. What a great read! My friend sold her house that way. She is Catholic also.

Where has the week gone! I have been so busy. Haven't had much free time lately. Right where I left it, I reach for the little book nestled safely in the drawer. Opening it feels like greeting an old friend:

Before us lies yellow brick road. Inviting comfort, peace and normalcy. Great oaks beckon. Tickling breezes fondle our sense, desires and fears. Let hope chase pain around a bench while laughter visits.

TRAILS is the title. I think this one is my favorite so far. It speaks of new beginnings. What a fantastic read to begin my day!

I finally found it! How the notebook ended up under my mattress, I can only guess. Time for a quick read:

BEYOND MIDNIGHT - Night time is a monster, swallowing my soul, and giving it back to me in slivers of colorless shadow. Sweeping dusts of memory haunt my prayers. Where the HELL is Sandman!?

Hands shaking, I clutch the book close to my chest. Pulse quickens. Maybe not the best reading material before bedtime. I put it back in the drawer where it belongs, with the important document, firmly paperclipped in place. The author must have left it in there. I will make sure she gets it.

No time to read these past three months. Lots of things going on. I can take a moment to relax. My hands palm the pages gently, as I find the next to the last page:

ALONE ON THIS DAY: I awake in tangled sheets. My California king is way too much bed for a widow. I debate on whether to greet this sticky, summer morn, or roll over and pay my respects to late afternoon. A lawn mower's brutal tune decides my fate. Slowly, I relent and arise, greeting July in the suburbs. With one foot still in slumber, walking is foreign. Takeout soup from last night rests heavily on my belly. Sunlight peeks through, courtesy of a missing blind slat. Warm rays softly kiss my face, like a gentle lover eager to please. A golden halo shines on grey walls. My day begins again.

My body trembles, and tears spill from eyes rubbed pink. I stare at the words, and as I do, a few droplets hit the page, baptizing them in fresh sorrow. I hide the notebook so I am never tempted to open it again.

TOSKA - A pale statue wrapped in moonlight. Caught between sorrow and terror. Orbiting this dark star for too long. A chaotic human puzzle. Scattered. Pieces missing. Some never fit. Heart a mere shadow. Silhouette incomplete. Haunted by memory's ghosts. Battling demons I birth. Losing the war. Casualty of my own life.

"Sharon, I found this little notebook between the mattress and box spring. The very last poem is heart wrenching, but the writing is beautiful. Whose is it?"

"I am so glad you found it! It belongs to the last patient who occupied this bed. She is gone now. This room has been empty for a while. Woman had a severe breakdown that resulted in long term dissociative amnesia. She would carry that book around with her, reading it periodically, not realizing that she was the author. She could not remember her life before the breakdown. Even insisted she was allergic to cats, though she had one for many years, and there was no known allergy. Her name is written on the back inside cover."

The other nurse eyed the cover. "Name sounds familiar. Lydia Sinclaire - the novelist? I read one of her mystery books and loved it!"

"That's the one. A very gifted and successful writer. Mrs. Sinclaire wrote a series about an amazing woman detective by the name of Willa Doucette. There was a Netflix series based on the character. Lydia's own life was filled with tragedy. Horrible childhood which resulted in her foster care upbringing. She meets a wonderful man and they marry. For years they tried to start a family, but she suffered from infertility. They sell their house. Planned on moving to Hawaii. Change of scenery. Bought a beachside condo. A few days before the move, her husband is killed driving their cat to the vet. Horrendous accident with no survivors. Not long after, she discovers she's pregnant. Miscarried a month later. She ends up here two years after that."

"How awful! Wasn't she only mid or late thirties?"

"Thirty-eight, and she still is. When I said she was gone, I didn't mean deceased. The woman is alive, and last I heard she is thriving. She was released long before you were hired."

The young nurse wore a shocked expression. "My bad, based on the last poem, I assumed she took her own life. Glad to hear she is doing well! Dr. Galbraith must be a miracle worker!"

Nurse Sharon's lips formed a crooked smile as she responded. "Yes, the doctor found a way to give Lydia a brand new life. So far, it seems to be working."

"There is a $20,000 check paper clipped in here! That's a lot of money! At least to me it is. Why didn't she cash it?"

Sharon's eyes widened. "I am so glad it's still in there! I will make sure Dr. Galbraith gives it to her publisher. It is a royalty check for the poetry book published before her breakdown. They will have to issue a new one. It is old and the name is incorrect."

The new nurse appeared confused. Still holding the notebook, she looked at the check. It is made out to Lydia Sinclaire. Is that just her pen name?"

Sharon began to walk away and then stopped abruptly. Her eyes downcast before she replied. "Lydia Sinclaire no longer exists. Willa Doucette is very much alive."