This weekend, as you can read at mom-blog, was NOT what I expected, but something really neat happened.  My husband caught up with a former colleague of his.  It was really nice, Sean was an a great guy and so it was nice to find that he’d been naturalized (he’s a Brit, love those Brits!), and married, and expecting, and promoted.

The last time I hung out with him, I believe Amelia was already born and a baby, so maybe 4 years ago?  Maybe she hadn’t been born yet, though, I’m not sure.  That night, Chris, Sean and I went out for dinner and drinks and after a few rounds, I told him the plot of my novel.   I believe this was the first time I told Chris the story as well.  It was VERY well received by both of them.

On Thursday night, Sean asked Chris how my novel was going, was I pursuing it, etc.  WOW.  I’m totally jazzed that someone would remember the plot and ask about it AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, especially when these 2 guys apparently had a LOT to catch up on (they hung out for SEVEN hours). This gave me confidence about this story.

Maybe it’s not my preferred genre, but it is one I like (although I’m the fussiest reader EVER), the plot has action, romance, sacrifice, hot hero, flawed woman, and lots of other good stuff, like war and politics.  In fact, to be honest, I’m rather happy with it, and I’m happy with my sequel concepts as well.  So 3 cheers for ME, and my little story 

I touch her hair, it seems all I can do; it’s silver, soft, and I’m surprised at its silkiness. I don’t remember it being this smooth. She’s asleep, like she is whenever I am there, like she is most of the time, as if this world holds nothing for her and she can just dream beautiful dreams instead.

They tell me, She’s good, she’s doing good, her heart is strong, her kidneys have healed: this is good? Her brain, I think, what about her HER BRAIN? It’s past the point of any recovery, of any healing, and its cruel of her heart to go on so firmly.

In my family, we valued the brain, admired it from afar, 3 children set to worship the idol of higher education without ever earning it, schooled in theology, politics, literature, film, TV, somewhat on our own, but there was always something intellectual going on. And who could ever get by without a book? It was my refuge in a life with 2 much older siblings. While I was learning to walk they were screaming for independence, and as soon as I could read, I read everything I could get my hands on. It didn’t have to be fiction, or even interesting, but stories and poems loomed large as the glittering gems of everything I read. And my mother read too, consumed Christian literature at an unbelievable rate, while Dad read techy things, when required, and I guess I was the spawn of all that reading. And sure, for a brief period, other parts of my body - my legs, for example - were my prize possession, but above all my brain remained the source of all my hubris and all my joys.

And here she is in a home, alone, her brain deteriorating…what does she dream of? Is it childish dreams, or can she remember the happy moments of her life? Is she chatting with God, did she retain all that she learned about Him, or is she just laughing and enjoying the peace of not being present, not having the damned curse of not knowing who is in front of her, or where she is, or why can’t she go home.

So I stroke her hair. It glitters silver, where once and always it glittered gold, but it is still her hair, shiny as a precious metal in my helpless hands. I wish I could take a lock of it because I know before long, she’ll be gone - and all I’ll have is my already-fading memories, moments shining in my mind, briefly, then escaping, as I lose her forever.