Here in my heart Is a tiny prayer That the world would Grow in kindness and love, That the pain of a million Voices would cease, And laughter run wild Over all the world.
I closed my mind and heart Because I could not bear To hear the tears Or feel the pain around me. I lived in a void For many years, But nothing changed. The world remained the same, Even when I was not.
I lived in the safe world Of grocery stores and J.C. Penney, Counting my money, And learning how to spend it. I bore my child And adored my loving husband. They became for me My fixtures, my sanity, The sum total of my life. But life does not end With safety and happiness, For while you are safe, Others are in danger. While you are happy, Others suffer. And it is not right, No, it is not right To shut the door behind you.
A heart in anguish Is a heart which feels The pain of a million suffering people And knows that death is near. A heart in anguish Touches the open wound, Binds the broken limb, Tastes the salty tears, And does it lovingly, Reverently, without fear. The heart in anguish knows life And death and suffering, But lives ultimately, and dies happy.
Dawn Pisturino 1985; March 9, 2022 Copyright 1985-2022 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
After nine years of marriage, Mary knew that the holidays were not a good time to ask her husband for a favor. Money was tight. The children were out of school. Her husband’s large, extended family had decided – at the last minute, of course – to honor them with their considerable presence at Christmas dinner. Christmas Day was only a week away, and Mary felt frazzled, overwhelmed, and out of sorts. She lay down on the small double bed in the master bedroom to take a nap.
It was Sunday afternoon. Betsy, 6, and Lauren, 8, were busy decorating sugar cookies in the kitchen. Their childish laughter rang through the house, a happy reminder of Christmas. Mary’s 12-year-old nephew, Jordan, lay on the carpeted living room floor playing video games. An occasional triumphant shout blended with the sound of video gunfire. Earlier in the day, he had announced his decision not to participate in any of his cousins’ childish activities. He was too old to decorate Christmas cookies, he declared; although Mary noted with a smile that he was not too old to consume half a dozen with a tall glass of milk. But he was a good boy, and Mary was happy to have the extra baby-sitting money. She had agreed to take him for the entire week while her sister was in the hospital having gallbladder surgery.
Mary wasn’t quite sure where her husband Todd had gone. He had left early in the morning before everyone was awake, leaving a note on the kitchen counter that he would be back later. She figured he was doing last minute Christmas shopping at the mall and would come home soon laden with packages. The children would greet him at the door, demanding to feel, prod, shake, rattle, and listen to each gaily wrapped gift. Then they would carefully lay them under the decorated artificial pine tree in the living room and continue to feel, prod, shake, rattle, and listen to them every day until Christmas.
Mary prayed as hard as she could that he would not go overboard spending their hard-earned money on Christmas gifts. They simply could not afford it, especially when they were expecting their third child in a couple of months.
Mary ran her hands over her swollen belly and sighed. She was not prepared to face another round of baby bottles and diapers — even if this one was a boy. She was tired and disappointed with her life. The constant pressure to pay bills, the ever-present fear of Todd being laid off, the nagging worry over providing an adequate future for the girls — the stress was tearing her apart and wearing her down. And soon there would be one more responsibility to face. She just didn’t feel up to it.
When Todd came home, she would beg him for this one favor: one of them needed to get sterilized. She didn’t care which one, but somehow, they had to come to some agreement. She didn’t want more children. They couldn’t afford anymore. She wanted to provide for the ones they had already.
Outside, the wind began to howl, and the softly falling snow grew thicker. She could no longer see the trees through the bedroom window. She shivered and drew the blanket tighter around her swollen body. Please drive carefully, she silently prayed.
* * *
“Mommy, mommy, we’re hungry!” cried the girls, jumping onto the bed.
Mary groaned and rolled over. The bedroom was dark. She glanced at the neon orange face of the alarm clock on the nightstand. Six o’clock. Todd should have come home by now.
Reluctantly, she got up and followed the girls into the kitchen. She grabbed a box of macaroni and cheese and a can of green peas out of the cupboard and began to prepare dinner. While she waited for the water in the pan to boil, she grabbed her cell phone and called Todd. She heard a few distant rings, then nothing. She tried again with the same result. Damn this snow, she cursed under her breath. She reached for the portable phone on the kitchen counter. No dial tone. Damn! She slammed down the receiver. There was no way to get hold of her husband.
“Mommy, when’s daddy coming home?” whined six-year-old Betsy, clinging to her shirt.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. We just have to be patient. Go into the living room with Lauren and Jordan. Dinner will be ready soon.” But inside, Mary did not want to be patient. She wanted to scream, Where is he? A feeling of dread came over her. Todd would have called if something was wrong — if he was able to call. And that’s what was worrying her. He had no way to communicate with her.
She poured the dry macaroni into boiling water, then placed the peas into a bowl and set it in the microwave. She set the dial for three minutes and waited. In the living room, she heard the familiar voice of Burl Ives singing cheery Christmas songs on TV. If only Todd were here . . .
When dinner was ready, she poked her head through the living room door to call the children to the table. The room was dark, and one of them – Jordan, probably – had plugged in the Christmas tree lights. Their soft glow filled the room with radiant colors. Mary smiled, allowing the gentle peace of Christmas to fill her heart. A small delay, that’s all. He’ll be here soon.
“Dinner, everyone! Put the video on pause and come to the table.”
The two girls ran to the table and scrambled into their chairs. Jordan pushed the pause button, then walked slowly into the kitchen and sat down. “When’s Uncle Todd coming home,” he asked glumly. “I want to play video games with him!”
“Any time now,” Mary responded cheerfully, dishing up a plateful of macaroni and cheese. “So, Jordan, it sounded like you were winning this afternoon!”
He took the plate from her hands. “Aw, I do okay.”
Outside the wind howled, and Mary thought she heard a faint knocking sound. Could it be . . .
“Hey! Somebody’s at the front door!” Jordan shouted. “Maybe it’s Uncle Todd!” And he was off and running before Mary could stop him.
“I wanna go see!” shouted Lauren.
“Me, too!”chimed in Betsy; and both girls raced into the living room.
“Wait!” Mary cried. “It could be a stranger!”
She hurried after the children. Jordan flipped on the outside light and opened the front door. In the doorway stood a State Trooper wearing a heavy jacket, thick boots, and gloves dusted with snow.
“Mrs. Abbott?” he inquired gravely.
Mary’s heart sank. “I’m Mrs. Abbott.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you like this, but I’ve got some bad news for you.”
Tears welled up in Mary’s eyes, but she held her voice steady. “Won’t you come in, officer?”
“Thank you, ma’am. It’s mighty cold out here.” He stomped the snow off his boots and entered the foyer.
“Ma’am, I’m awfully sorry to tell you this –“
“The children, officer –“
“Yes, ma’am. Maybe we can send them into another room for a few minutes.”
“Children, you heard the officer. Go back into the kitchen and eat your supper.”
“Aw, I want to stay here!” Jordan grumbled.
“No, I need you to go into the kitchen. Now!”
Jordan mumbled something under his breath but turned and walked away. The girls reluctantly followed.
“As I was saying, ma’am, I have some awfully bad news for you. Your husband, Todd Abbott, was killed in a car crash an hour ago. He missed the turn down on Miles Creek Road and slammed right into that old oak tree in the bend. He died instantly from the looks of it. An ambulance took him to Mercy Hospital. He’s laying in the morgue there. You’ll need to come identify the body as soon as you can.”
Mary stared at him in horror. “No! It can’t be!” she cried. “It can’t be . . .”
* * *
In the days that followed, Mary stopped living. She refused to get out of bed. Taking the sedative prescribed by Dr. Lawrence, she kept herself sedated, locked in her room, lost to the world, oblivious to her own existence. All she wanted was to sleep – long, deep, and hard – until all the agonizing pain and suffering deep inside had shriveled up and disappeared. She wanted to blot out all the memories of her life, every thought and feeling, and to never think or feel again.
* * *
“He’s dead,” Jordan said quietly, bursting into tears. “I’m never going to see him again.” The two girls, not fully understanding, began to wail.
“I want my daddy! I want my daddy!” they screamed in unison. “Mommy! Mommy!”
“Shhh . . . Hush now, my darlings. Grandma’s here.” With a heavy heart, she drew the little ones close to her breast and held them tight. They sobbed hysterically, wetting her sweater, until sleep overcame them and offered a temporary shelter from their grief.
* * *
After three days, Mary emerged from the darkness of her bedroom. Stumbling down the hallway in her old flannel bathrobe, she made her way to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of black coffee. Her hands shook slightly, and her mother stared at her in shock.
“Mary, you look terrible! Come sit down. Do you want some eggs?”
“No, I’m not hungry.”
“Then come sit down and talk.”
“I don’t think I can do that yet.”
She stood over the kitchen sink and stared out the window. The day was crystal clear with a cloudless, vivid blue sky. Bright sunshine made the clean white snow sparkle with millions of tiny diamonds. It was a perfect winter day, just right for making snowmen and snow angels and drinking hot chocolate; sledding down Jackson Hill; ice skating on Fisher’s pond; building snow forts and throwing snowballs.
“He’s gone, mother, and I don’t know what to do. How can I go on? He was my whole life. And the kids — good Lord, what kind of god takes a wonderful daddy like Todd away from his children? I don’t understand it. It’s too cruel. Those kids are never going to be the same again.”
“They’ll get through it, Mary — and so will you. You’ll do it because you have to — for the sake of those little girls — and the new one that’s coming.”
Mary turned around angrily. “I don’t even want this child! Do you know what I wanted to do? I wanted one of us to get sterilized. I don’t want anymore children! I can’t even provide for the ones I have. How am I going to support three children working part-time at the video store? Todd’s life insurance will help, but there’s the house payment, and now we need another car, and the utilities, and food — and how am I going to pay for medical insurance? I don’t even know if Todd’s medical insurance is going to cover the delivery, now that he’s gone!”
“Careful, Mary, or that baby will grow up knowing you resent it. It’s not fair to blame the child for what’s happened.”
“I’m sorry, mother, but I do resent it! I didn’t want it in the first place — and now, with all this — I just can’t handle it!”
“It’s still Todd’s baby, Mary. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
* * *
The small bronze box on display at the front of the memorial chapel was engraved with these words: “Together Forever.” Two hearts intertwined, and Todd’s name, birth date, and date of death were engraved inside one of them. Mary gazed tearfully at the 8 x 10 color photo of her husband displayed next to the urn and fingered the thin gold wedding band hanging on a gold chain around her neck. Someday, she promised, my ashes will be added to yours, and we will be together forever.
She lit a small votive candle and placed it before the framed photograph. Then silently, reverently, she reached out and touched the smooth glass inside the frame, mentally stroking the familiar features of her husband’s face. Together forever . . .
She hugged her swollen belly and felt the child inside her move. If it’s a boy, I’ll namehimafter you. Todd Douglas Abbott. He might even look like you! I hope he looks like you, she prayed. She closed her eyes and wept.
She remembered the day when the doctor called to tell her the good news. Congratulations, Mrs. Abbott, you’re pregnant! She had been angry at the doctor and angry at Todd. The doctor tried to reassure her that everything would be okay, but she refused to listen and hung up the phone. She crawled into bed and stayed there all afternoon, crying about her condition. When Todd came home from work, she lashed into him with angry words, blaming him, and calling him names. Instead of fighting back, he merely looked at her with a deep sympathy and understanding that calmed her down, then took her in his arms and reassured her, like the doctor, that everything would be okay. He promised her that everything would be okay . . . and now he was dead. How could she ever forgive him for lying to her? Most importantly, how could she ever forgive herself for despising him and hating this child?
Somebody touched her gently on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mary.”
She turned around and looked into the deeply lined, tear-stained face of Todd’s mother. “It’s all so horrible,” Mary sobbed, throwing her arms around her.
“Yes, it is.” Todd’s mother hugged her warmly. “He was my baby, Mary. I couldn’t have anymore children after he was born. It made him more special, somehow. Just like your little one. He’s Todd’s last gift to you — the best gift! Love him, Mary; really love him. Just like you loved Todd. Because there’ll never be anymore of him in this world.” Her voice broke, and she wiped the tears from her eyes with a handkerchief.
The best gift. The words echoed in Mary’s heart. Suddenly, she understood. Looking down at her swollen belly, the agonizing pain and anger melted away, and a deep love filled her: love for her husband, her family, and this beautiful child who would carry on Todd’s legacy. A bright spark of hope lifted her up, releasing her from her fears. She grabbed her mother-in-law’s hands and placed them over her belly, tears streaming down her face.
“We’ll love him together,” she said softly.
Dawn Pisturino
Copyright 2007-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
The first line of this story was provided by The First Line as a writing prompt.
It was early in the morning, and a young woman and her husband were driving to the train station. Temporarily, at least, the rain had stopped. The air was pleasantly fresh and clear, though oh! so cold, and here and there a patch of blue showed through the thick November clouds. Pale sunlight shone thinly against the grey morning dampness, brightening just a little the depressing aspect of the city.
“Oh look, a rainbow!” the young woman cried, pointing out the window.
Her husband, who was driving, looked up into the distant sky. Sure enough, half of a large rainbow emerged from a thick grey cloud.
The woman’s face beamed with happiness. “Isn’t that lovely?” she said. “It makes the whole morning beautiful.”
As they drove down the muddy narrow road which ran alongside the railroad tracks, the rainbow seemed to grow more distinct. Soon they could see each end of the rainbow, though the middle was still hidden by clouds.
“Now you can see both ends,” the woman cried eagerly.
“See where it goes,” her husband said. “Maybe I can find my pot of gold.”
The woman searched the sky, trying to determine beginning and end.
“It seems to stretch between the hills over there” — (she pointed left) — “and downtown over there” — (she pointed right.)
“Where does that story come from, anyways?” her husband asked.
“The Irish, I think. You know, leprechauns and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”
“Yeah,” said her husband, a greedy grin on his youthful face. “I’d like to find a pot of gold at the end of it.”
The young woman frowned. “Oh, Jim, that’s all you care about is money. Can’t you think of anything else?”
“Not when we don’t have any,” he answered.
The woman said nothing more, and they drove along in silence until they arrived at the station. But when Jim was helping her out of the car, she suddenly noticed the other rainbow.
“Now look,” she said triumphantly, pointing at the sky. “There are two rainbows!”
Above the first rainbow, which was growing brighter by the minute, half of a second rainbow could be seen.
“That’s unusual to see two rainbows,” she said thoughtfully. While the young couple watched together, the first rainbow grew stronger and more distinct as the sunlight shifted.
“Now you can see the whole arch!” the woman exclaimed. Truly, it was lovely. The rainbow colors stood clear and vivid against the somber grey sky. “That’s rare to see such a rainbow,” she said, grabbing her husband’s hand and squeezing it tightly. Indeed, the colors seemed almost unnatural.
“And remember, Sharon, there are two,” Jim reminded her gently. “Perhaps they’re man and wife — like us.”
Sharon giggled. “Which one is the man?” she asked playfully.
“The one on the bottom is the strongest.” Jim put his arm around his wife’s ample waist and hugged her close.
“On the bottom, right where he belongs,” Sharon teased.
Her husband laughed. “Actually, I rather like it when you’re on top.”
Sharon pounded him lightly in the stomach. “You’re incorrigible, you beast!”
The young man patted his wife’s swollen belly, feeling the unborn child move inside. “When rainbows make love, do they make little rainbows?” he whispered in her ear.
“How else could there be rainbows,” she whispered back.
“Actually, there are rainbows all the time. We just don’t see them.”
“My husband, the brilliant scientist!”
Suddenly the skies opened up, and a great rain began to fall. The wind whipped up, chilling them to the bone. Laughing wildly, the young couple ran onto the covered platform.
“I love rain like this!'” shouted the young woman over the roar of the downpour.
“I don’t like getting wet all the time,” shouted her husband, who was more practical. “Here comes the train!”
Down the track, the two bright headlights pierced the misty, watery veil of rain, and in a few moments, the train pulled into the station. The woman hugged her husband tightly and kissed him passionately on his warm lips. “You smell so good,” she murmured, snuggling close to his big, warm body.
“I have to go,” he said, disentangling himself from her clinging embrace. “Have a good day. Rest!”
“I will,” she promised, smiling. “Have a good day!”
She waited until he was safely on the train, waved good-bye, then ran into the rain. Behind her, the train began to move slowly down the track. She couldn’t help herself. She stopped and watched as the train gathered speed and chugged out of sight. She pulled her drenched jacket closer around her bulging body. Rain poured down her face and hair. In a moment, she heard the train whistle blasting farther down the track. “I love you,” she whispered, and a lump formed in her throat. Tears watered her eyes, spilled over, and ran down her cheeks, mingling with the rain. She turned and ran as fast as she could to the car.
She climbed into the car and turned the key. The engine sputtered, died, then caught again. She pulled out of the parking space and followed once more the primitive road which ran beside the railroad tracks. She was wet and cold and eager to get home to a hot shower. Her husband was gone to work, the babe was safe and warm inside her. The day would be long and lonely. The rain would carry on, darkening their small apartment. Still, she was happy and content. She had followed her rainbow long ago. She had found her pot of gold.
Dawn Pisturino
November 1983
A true story. Written while I was pregnant.
Copyright 1983-2016 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
In 1912, Henry Gilbert released his epic novel, Robin Hood.
In 1922, released was the stunning Ulysses by James Joyce.
Aldous Huxley published the ground breaking Brave New World in 1932.
Albert Camus brought us Existentialism with The Stranger and The Myth of Sisyphus in the year 1942.
1952, had us all crying over a spider with E.B. White’s Charlotte’s Web.
A Winkle in Time, Something Wicked Comes This Way, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and Clockwork Orange all blew our minds in 1962.
No one will ever love a book more than The Princess Bride which 1972 brought us.
Roald Dahl owned the year before I was born, 1982, with James and the Giant Peach and The BFG.
In 1992, The Motorcycle Diaries: Notes on a Latin American Journey by Ernesto “Che” Guevara had us rethinking our lives and the journey’s we have taken.
My husband was one of those “bad boys” that girls fall in love with and parents deplore. With his black jacket and black leather cap, he looked like a Sicilian gangster out on a hit.
His pent-up anger spilled out of him in dangerous ways. For example, he mapped out a plan whereby every bank in the city of San Francisco could be robbed on the same day.
His dark nature captivated me, and soon, I was hooked for life.
We fought like cats and dogs, but oh, the fun we had! We went treasure hunting in crazy, out-of-the-way places, finding cold hard cash lying in the sand in a cave. We drove up and down the Pacific Coast Highway in his green Fiat X-19, enjoying the sun on our faces, the wind in our hair. We hiked through the redwoods on Mt. Tamalpais and watched the ocean tides under a full moon at Ocean Beach.
One day, singing at the top of his lungs, my husband suddenly stripped down and drove naked with the top of his car open along the 92 over to Half Moon Bay. Thrilled and excited, I watched for the cops, laughing all the way.
On cool, foggy nights, we slipped away into the darkness and made love on sandy beaches. On warm afternoons, we packed a picnic snack: a bottle of Riunite Lambrusco and a link of dried salame. Sun, warmth, ocean air, sand, green grass, and a hazy glow of love and darkness and friendship between us.
After our daughter was born, we included her in our crazy life. Archery at the range on King’s Mountain, afternoon tea at Agatha’s, strolling the malls, tramping through the sand at Half Moon Bay, riding the carousel at the San Francisco Zoo, flying kites down on the Marina.
Those days are over now. Our daughter is grown, and we’re not as skinny as we used to be. We live in the desert in Arizona, work, walk the dog, watch TV, and complain about the heat, wind, and dust. But whenever I go back to California, I relive those glory days of sunshine and salt air. Whenever I spot a bottle of Riunite or a link of dried salame at the grocery store, I remember foggy nights and making love in the sand.
So let me fill my plastic cup with cheap red wine, arrange slices of salame and cheese on a paper plate, and offer this toast to the man I love:
I LOVE YOU, DEAR HEART, MY LOVER, MY BEST FRIEND, MY MENTOR, MY DEVIL’S ADVOCATE, MY DARK KNIGHT — AND I ALWAYS WILL.
Translation: “Mother’s Day: I only found an artichoke, but my heart’s in it!”
On May 12, 1907, Anna Jarvis of Philadelphia held a memorial service for her departed mother in Grafton, West Virginia. This simple act of devotion started a trend that spread to every state in the nation.
The second Sunday in May was declared a federal holiday—Mother’s Day— by President Woodrow Wilson in 1914.
It became customary to wear a red or pink carnation to honor living mothers and a white carnation to honor the deceased.
The greeting card companies seized on this opportunity to promote sending flowers, cards, and gifts. In her later years, Anna Jarvis resented the commercialization of Mother’s Day and lobbied to abolish the holiday.
Whether we honor our mothers with store-purchased items or handmade goodies, the idea behind Mother’s Day is still valid. My mother worked hard all of her life. She was unhappy and stressed out much of the time. But she tried her best to love us, protect us, and give us what we needed.
One of my fondest memories is a rainy night in 1965. The school chorus was giving a concert, and the streets in L.A. were flooded. I was afraid that my mother wouldn’t be able to attend our performance. But somehow, someway, she made it, and I always remembered that. Her efforts let me know how much she cared.
She’s gone now, and I miss her, but she suffered from chronic pain and a severe heart condition. Death brought her relief. And I try to remember that even as I wish she were here.
HONOR THE ONES YOU LOVE EVERY DAY OF THE YEAR. I wish now that I had done more for her.
When I was fourteen years old, I fell in love with my algebra teacher. Teaching silly high school students earned him a living. His real goal? To complete his PhD. in physics.
His curly dark hair shimmered with dandruff, detracting from his coffee-stink breath. He wore wrinkled blue seersucker suits in warm weather and corduroy jackets with patched elbows in cold. Nervous and shy, his hands and voice trembled when he stood in front of the blackboard explaining algebraic formulas to a bunch of disinterested teenagers.
He seemed young and old at the same time. And he had violet eyes—I kid you not! The most beautiful eyes I had ever seen behind a pair of dark-rimmed glasses.
My heart burned with love for this nervous nerd. I adored him throughout algebra and again during Life Sciences. I worshipped the ground he walked, waiting expectantly to catch glimpses of him between classes and after school.
I even wrote him a poem. I forgot it for many years, and suddenly, one day, I remembered part of it.
Bitter Fragment of a Beautiful Dream
My love, thou hast hearkened to my sorrows
Ere the night as ere the day;
Among the grasses of these meadows
Hast thou hearkened to my laughter
Clearly echoing the joy bound in thine heart.
Beyond the hill hath mine hand wept in thine:
Thou wip-ed away the tears.
Beside the stream—how sweetly flows the rivulet wine!—
Thou rejoiced as mine;
We wept for the years,
Since-parted, we knew each other not.
Belov-ed, thou hast planted deep the seed of love,
And how it grows!—
Reaching, reaching for the height of its passion,
But endlessly reaching—
I love thee.
My sweet, thou hast made pure of me a lover.
A burning fire scorches the flesh and tendons of my soul,
Melting fast the waxen candle:—
I love thee as myself,
For I love thee as thyself,
And as one should we destine,
Striving for the highest and deepest aspirations
Of Life!—
Or Death . . .
(Beginning of poem written Spring, 1970 for R.B, remembered Spring, 1986)
You see here, of course, the influences of the great Romantic poets, with whom I was obsessed: Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, Byron, and especially, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. How the world burned with love, passion, and death! For love had to end in a tragic, prolonged death. Young love, undying love. Romeo and Juliet. Catherine and Heathcliff.
I found a photo of R.B. in an old high school yearbook. Examining the greasy hair, weak chin, thin body, I could only exclaim: WHAT WAS I THINKING BACK THEN? Romeo and Juliet? Hardly. Catherine and Heathcliff? No way!
I often wonder if he achieved his goal. Is he a Doctor of Philosophy now in Physics? Does he still teach? And I still remember his deep, soul-sinking violet eyes. But not my cup of tea. No, definitely not! But he was my love, my very first love, and I treasure that memory. Always.
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