It’s Never Too Late to Heal
I twirled around causing the skirt of my best Sunday dress to flair out in a way that delighted my four-year-old sensibilities. It was 1966 and my black patent leather Mary Jane’s made a wonderful clacking sound on the creaky oak floors of the sanctuary. Problem was, I was supposed to be sitting in my seat. My father scowled at me from the pulpit. Mrs. Wagoner, a wonderful, kindly old widow, had been tasked with watching me that Sunday morning, but try as she might, she couldn’t convince me to sit down. For some reason I cannot remember, my mother was not in attendance at the service that day.
The Thumb-Sucker
I thought I was safe. At four years old, I believed if I couldn’t see you, you couldn’t see me. I had secreted myself away in a nice little spot between the couch and the wall and eagerly stuck my thumb in my mouth. As I closed my eyes, the delicious feeling of numb security washed over me. Though I could hear my mother clattering dishes in the kitchen, she was nowhere to be seen. Thankfully, my father was still at work. My eyes blinked open and shut as the very edge of slumber crawled into my mind.
Blackbird
I covered my ears at the deafening sound of the shotgun blast. My father discharged another volley into the treetops. The leaves shook in terror and temporarily moved as one with hundreds of blackbirds as they jockeyed for position. My mother clapped her hands and tried to scare them off as she ran through the yard whooping at the top of her lungs.