Nancy Schoellkopf's Blog

I feel it would be disingenuous this year to post my usual affirmation of hoped-for abundance and gratitude for blessings when so many people here in our own country are suffering.  I myself am at a place in life where I am truly content with all I have and at peace about all I do not have.  Life has been good to me, but I did not always have the wisdom to recognize its goodness.  I am older, I am comfortable, and I am surprised to discover I am happy.

I’m lucky, and because I’m lucky I give to charity when I can, I do some volunteer work, I lobby my government representatives, and I hope for better.  

I have no advice or call to action for anybody else.  But please remember we’re all in this together.  If you need help, please ask.  If you can offer help, please do so.  

I affirm we are a compassionate people.  

We are gentle with ourselves and with each other.

We are willing to reach out.

Amen

Happy Thanksgiving!

Photo by Priscilla DuPreez on Unsplash

Written with the prompts: book on the table, the dead refuse to talk, floating on a star, Mickey a good surgeon, morning routine, Natalie was bored with it all, only energy, silly like that, strawberries, went to see the orphan lambs, what normal looks like, Henry quite damp, two things a day, one big green eye, cruising, easy life, finger work, gray roadster, he lit up, little sister bit brother

The night my little sister bit my big brother, our cousin Natalie was babysitting.  I was eight years old and I idolized Natalie.  Natalie always fussed over me—you know when I was four and she was twelve.  But now that she was sixteen, I couldn’t seem to do anything right.  I wanted to show her all our new games and our new record albums, but Natalie was bored with it all.  She sat in the study, engrossed with her phone, ignoring us.  She completed ruined the morning routine my mother had laid out for her.  She couldn’t be bothered heating up the water in the tea kettle for the instant oatmeal packets that we were supposed to eat with brown sugar and strawberries.  She just pulled Dad’s Cheerios out of the cupboard and said, “Here.”  Then we were on our own.

The three of us weren’t sure what to do.  Tim headed off to the neighbors who were fostering orphan lambs.  I told him he shouldn’t go, but nobody ever did what I said.  I was livid of course because that was normal for me.  Admittedly though, I was not surprised.  I was just silly like that back then.

My baby sister GinGin was getting near to having a full set of teeth and she seemed to enjoy those Cheerios.  Crunchy, you know.  After that she was eager to run outside and eat herself some dandelions and nasturtiums in the field.  I tried to stop her, but nobody ever did what I told them to do.  I was livid about it of course, for reasons I already recounted.

Suddenly this blue-eyed boy pulled up in a gray roadster and parked in front of our concrete path.  He stepped out of the car and lit up some kind of hand-rolled cigarette.  He was the prettiest boy I think I’d ever seen with ash blonde hair—and oh, if he didn’t have one green eye and one blue!—yes, that’s right.  His eyes were two colors.  I found that very intriguing, maybe even sexy, though I didn’t know much about that back then.  Later I’d think these two colors were suspicious.  Why couldn’t he stick to one color, for crying out loud.  Two things a day, two colors.  It suggests disloyalty.

Natalie came rushing out and planted a kiss on his mouth then took his cigarette and began puffing it herself.  It was hers now, the boy and the joint.  I was quiet, thinking I should point out that GinGin was munching on flowers but not wanting to draw attention to myself, a little girl, no match for my cousin who had no interest in me.  Except she did finally glance my way, her face cloudy with smoke, her eyes piercing with her Cleopatra eyeliner.  “This here’s Henry,” she announced, and that introduction gave me permission to stare full on at the appealing Henry, who looked quite damp in the humid morning, and I weirdly wondered what it might be like to lick him.  

“Where’s Tim?” Natalie asked and I snapped back to reality.  

“Gone to the neighbors,” I said.

“Well,” Natalie informed me, “he’s missing out, cuz we’s all going cruising.”

She gave Henry the cigarette back, grabbed GinGin, and we all tumbled into the car.  Natalie put Gin in my lap and I sat in the back clutching her without benefit of car seat or seat belts.  This, I thought, is life, the way it’s supposed to be lived, an easy life, carefree without restraint.  All the rule books were left home on the table, we were floating on a star, the trees and sky rushing by so fast on the sides and overhead it was all a blur of color, scent, sensation.  This is energy.  I am energy, only energy.  For a quick moment I saw my grandparents flying above us, my dead Nana and Pops. I could feel them, but the dead refuse to talk.  That’s okay, it was enough to know they were there, they were protecting us.  I was aware of that.  Even when we stopped.  We had to stop because Natalie was vomiting from the smoke and the taste and the heady dizziness of the pot and the energy.  Then we went home.

Later that night just before Mom and Dad showed up GinGin bit Tim’s finger real hard and we ended up in the ER with some guy named Mickey the Good Surgeon.  I don’t think that was his real name, I don’t know.  But I guess he was an expert in finger work cuz he put the stitches in Tim’s finger.  Six stitches, they said, and I guess that was a big deal.

Whenever anyone mentions that summer day, that’s the story we tell, the one about GinGin’s new teeth that she tried out on Tim’s finger.  I never told anybody, but for me the important event of that day was the ride in the back seat of Henry’s car.  It was the first time I understood the energy, how it moves, and how it feels.  And that has made all the difference.

Photo by Fujiphilm on Unsplash

Written with the prompts:  bright red lips, cave dwellers, something to read, everything was not okay, fast forward six months, can’t save everyone, jelly jar glasses, sanctuary, I’ll come back

Netta perched on the window seat watching the back lawn change color in the rain.  Cranberry clouds were melting against the horizon and the wet grass appeared streaked with dark Zinfandel.  Netta’s mouth was also tinted a bright red, whether from lipstick or from the liquid she was sipping was anyone’s guess.

“What are you drinking?” Marie asked as she entered the room.  “It’s awfully early for wine.”  She snatched the glass away from her sister, pausing in regret when she saw Netta was drinking from a jelly jar glass.

“Don’t be silly,” Netta chided her.  “It’s cherry cider.”

Marie scrunched up her nose and took a tiny taste.  Ew, cloying.  She handed it back.  “What’s happening now?” she asked as she stooped to look out the window.  

Netta took a hearty swig.  “The leaves are veined in magenta and brown, the sky is bloody, and every flower seems to be turning a citrusy orange—the roses, the gardenias, the hydrangeas.  Don’t get me wrong, I like orange well enough, but. . .” she sighed and gestured futilely, finally gulping down the rest of her cider.  She turned back to the window, but Marie looked at the empty glass with its few last drops of pink at the bottom.  Would it help, she wondered, if we drank nothing but colorless water?  Would that reset it all?  She sank into a nearby chair.  The truth was she was afraid to turn on a faucet.  What color might the water be now?

“At least the new colors are pretty,” Marie said with feigned optimism.

“Stop it,” Netta said emphatically.  “I’m so tired of being told to settle, to be satisfied with what we’ve got and not to want anything more.  Fast forward six months and we’ll all be dead at this rate.  I don’t think it’s too much to ask for a little chink of blue.”

Marie grasped her sister’s arm.  “If we hurry we can drive up into the mountains and save a tiny piece of sky.”

Netta rose.  “I’ll get my shoes.”

They rushed out with a butterfly net, determined to create a sanctuary for blues, greens, and deep purples. They knew they could not save every one but they would do what they could.  “I promise we’ll come back one day,” Marie said as they packed up cookie dough and potato chips, preparing to become cave dwellers.

“Me too,” Netta pledged.

“Remember to bring something to read.”

“Okay.”

Photo by Melody Zimmerman on Unsplash

Written with the prompts:  maniac, nostalgic, random lines, every head turned, Melba looking at books, lights flickered, dairy dog, Jimmy heard, we can have pets, future island, bad shit going down, construction, helicopter, drums, no luggage, not a mistake, new normal, give them the finger

Melba looked up from her book when she heard Jimmy bark.  She patted the dog’s head and shushed him gently.  Still every head turned, the helicopter pilot and the other passengers, eying Melba with what she could only imagine was disdain.  She straightened her back, and stared back fiercely.  This was the new normal and if she expected to get any respect at all, she was going to have to claim it outright.  Oh, she was tempted to give every last one of them the finger, but instead she yawned in their faces and returned her attention to her book.  It was science fiction, either Ray Bradbury or Ursula LeGuin.  She wasn’t even sure—since she was only pretending to read.  The lights flickered and the others jumped perceptively, then they thankfully turned away from her.  Melba sighed in relief.

When the maniacs in charge started drawing random lines in the sand, Melba knew she needed to prep for a quick escape.  Yeah, she knew she should do that, but she didn’t do it.  All she did was make provisions for Jimmy, her rescue dog.  He used to be a dairy dog, herding the cows up the hills in spring, then back down in fall, standing guard every damn day.  He was as vigilant as they come.  He was nearly lame now, but he had a vital spirit, and a heart as big as all outdoors.  Melba would never leave him behind.  When the construction collapsed, all she cared about was bundling him up and getting the two of them onto a copter.  Bad shit was going down, but as long as she had Jimmy, she knew she’d be okay.

Drums were beating, she swore she could hear them, as she raced on her motorcycle to the airport.  She had no luggage, only Jimmy’s carrier stashed in the sidecar.  

The pilot looked at her.  “What are you going to do when we get there?” he asked in a rhetorical tone as if surely she realized how ill-prepared she was.  “This is not a mistake,” she asserted.

He hesitated and she stepped forward, pulling Jimmy within inches of the pilot’s crotch.  “It’s allowed,” she said authoritatively. “We can have pets.”

He stepped back and let her in.

Now Melba leaned toward the window, nostalgic for the flights she used to take with her late husband.  The landscape was pristine back then, the river lacing through gold and green fields like blue thread through a quilt.  Today she saw nothing but smoke.

She closed her eyes, falling into a deep trance.  Somewhere below was an ocean of gems, a future island, a paradise for old women and dogs.

Photo by Leio McLaren on Unsplash

This is a reprint of a Halloween favorite. Enjoy!

Pearl became a crone gradually.  It started when she shed her pastel, party-mint-colored clothes, the pinks, the baby blues and pale yellows.  Suddenly she found herself attracted to burgundy, teal, and aubergine.  She stopped dyeing her hair yellow blond, gave up the tinted contacts, the high heeled pumps.  She traipsed around in dark green Birkenstocks or brown leather clogs.

It all happened so gradually that her co-workers didn’t notice.  Until they did.  Whereas she had once been a peachy yellow rose, now she was a tumble weed, dusty brown and plain, but unstoppable.  She had always been a live wire, a sassy buxom babe who’d say anything for a laugh and a wink, but now when she spoke people would say, “huh,” and walk away musing. The next day they’d stop her in the hall, say, “Gosh, Pearl, I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said!”

She took to whispering, chanting in Sanskrit, handing out dried apricots instead of M&M’s. Everyone walked a little slower and talked a little softer when she was in the room.  All the supervisors wanted her on their teams, if only so she’d come to their staff meetings and share her sage observations.  She had a way of fostering friendliness, cooperation, and consensus.

Then one day, Pearl showed up with a crow on her shoulder.  “This is Olive,” she announced.  The crow nodded in silence, its glossy black eyes intensely staring. Everyone stepped back and gave Pearl and Olive room.  Even the supervisors were in awe.

Olive went everywhere with Pearl, to meetings and conferences, the cafeteria, the library, and the ladies’ room.  Olive was a silent sentry, a live bird who occasionally stretched her wings and her toes, but for the most part her presence was unobtrusive and didn’t change a thing.  Pearl’s work was impeccable, her team contributions unrivaled.

But sometimes, late in the afternoon, Pearl and Olive could be heard cackling uproariously at the back table in the staff room, sharing a granola bar and herbal tea in saucer and mug. The office would become quiet, glances might be exchanged and eyebrows raised.  But everyone knew to stick to his own cubicle.  No one dared move.  No one dared break the spell.

Happy Halloween!

Photo by Marija Zaric at Unsplash

Written with the prompts:  dreams don’t come easy, blended spirits, can I kiss you, change your name, Gloria quacked, not a nice person, new guy in class, on our bellies one inch at a time, or what?, shared an unspoken awareness

Allison dreamed she was on her belly, crawling over the wet lawn one inch at a time, pressing on nut grass and dandelions.  She lifted her head.  Venus was racing the sun to rise over the levee before dawn.  She rolled onto her back to watch the planet shimmering on the lilac horizon, dancing with the blended spirits of every wild animal that had ever visited her along the levee trails.  “Can I kiss you?” a coyote whispered, and Allison leaned forward.  “Yes, but only if you allow me to change your name.”

The coyote laughed and Allison startled awake at the sound of her husband snoring.  It was almost time so she pulled on her sweats and slid into the kitchen.  

Jim followed a few minutes later and she handed him a mug of coffee and milk the way he liked it.  He laid a quick peck on the corner of her lip, missing her mouth.  “If you had to name a coyote,” she asked him, “what would you call him?”

“What now?” he mumbled.

“A coyote,” she replied.  “What would you name a coyote?”

“Jimmy Kimmel.”

“Be serious.”

“Or what?”  He squeezed her arm and pulled her in for a second chance, this time hitting the mark with a more affectionate buss.  Their four-year-old Gloria wandered in, quacking.  This was new.

“There are ducks in my room,” Gloria announced.

“And what are their names?” Jim asked his daughter.

“I dunno,” Gloria said.  “You should ask them.”

Allison was beating eggs.  “Are there really ducks or did you dream of ducks?”

“Maybe,” Gloria conceded.  Allison gave her toast and bid her to sit.

“What would you name a coyote?” Allison asked Gloria.

“What’s a coyote?”

“You know, like a dog?” Jim said helpfully.

“Can we get a dog?” Allison asked.

“No,” Jim said quickly.

“Why not?” Gloria asked, and Jim rolled his eyes at his wife.  Allison served up scrambled eggs and wandered out the back door, nursing her black coffee.  

She stared at the levee stretching across the back of their yard, wondering why she found it necessary to change a coyote’s name in the first place.  “Dreams don’t come easy,” she said aloud.  

For some unknown reason she thought of the new guy in her dystopian literature class, just a boy really, he reminded her of her first, a guy who’d gaslit her, not a nice person.  This new kid was like so many young men his age, with his pointed comments and sassy questions, looking to prove something.  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.  It was not her job to fight with him, nor was it her job to tame him.

The V-shaped crevice between their orange tree and the neighbor’s pine was filling with sunlight, and a soft wooden whistle was trilling in the distance.  Allison nearly spit out her coffee as she abruptly lifted her chin to scan the sky.  She knew that sound, she waited every fall for that soft annunciation, and there they were:  a small flock of sandhill cranes, so high up in the pale sky that they were barely visible, but–there!  There they were, circling above the river, seemingly indecisive, trading places, forming an arrow, then a circle, then an arrow again, finally edging off toward the south.  Their chortling so soothing, almost like a cat’s purr.  “I could listen to it all day,” Allison whispered to herself.

She lowered her face to sip her coffee, and she saw atop the levee a canine.  A coyote?  No, they seldom come so close to the house.  It was her neighbor’s German Shepherd mix, a handsome dog with a stubbed tail and a high-pitched bark.  

Now there’s a name she would change:  Zeus.  Who names their dog Zeus?  She and the dog exchanged glances, an unspoken awareness.  Certainly the name embarrassed the poor dog too, she thought.  “I would name you Nelson Mandela or Barack Obama or Francis of Assisi,” she called to the dog.  She paused.  “Or James,” she said decisively.  After he husband.  She’d chosen well.  He was a nice person.  Any coyote would be proud.

Photo by Chris Briggs on Unsplash

Written with the prompt: secret colors

Climate change is jerking Marilee around.  Day before yesterday it rained.  Not hard, not steady, but enough to force her into her hooded barn coat and water proof hiking boots.  Didn’t matter, she had no umbrella and felt damp and clammy all morning.  Yesterday a transition, cloudy and pleasantly brisk.  Today, sunny and 90 degrees.  She spent all afternoon peeling off layers, forced to carry a tote bag filled with sweat on the bus ride home.  What the heck, October?

Her lover Jamie is lanky guy who exudes a jittery energy.  The days are getting shorter and he can’t stand it.  He’s frantic to hold on to a little bit of light, and Marilee wants to hold on to him.  He has eyes the color of chestnuts in sunlight, but in the lamplight of her bedroom his eyes are grayish green, as dark as Connemara marble.

He leaves at midnight and Marilee feels the energy shift.  She lies in bed, sure that he has taken the back wall of her house with him.  Now the wet branches of the maple tree will drop their yellow leaves on the kitchen table, invasive tendrils of ivy will creep into cupboard and drawers, that large white spider with its yellow striped belly will weave a story across the doorway that will trap her inside.  

What are the secret colors blocking my escape?  What mysteries are woven into your web, spider? I don’t know why you scare me but you do.  If I summon my magpies, will you scurry away?

In the morning Marilee is awakened by the radio.  She lies in bed listening to NPR’s Morning Edition.  She slips back asleep, wandering through the labyrinthian halls of her elementary school, unable to find her students, unable to find her classroom, frantically searching as Steve Inskeep tells her there’s been another shooting, another half dozen children dead or dying.  She is in the hospital with Leila Fadel, but now they are in the emergency room, and the hospice nurse tells her she might go call her family, ask her mother’s sister to come say goodbye, as it’s looking doubtful, but then Marilee rises up out of a salty slumber, as if she’d been snorkeling off a warm Hawaiian coast.  

Adrenaline pumping, she turns off the news.  She’s running late.  She hates October before the return to standard time.  It’s past seven and still dark.  She flips on a harsh overhead light.  The house is intact.  She affirms she is safe.

She has her secrets.  In the shower she slides a soapy hand over a puckery scar that runs from naval to pubic bone.  It is the color of air flitting along her peach-colored belly.  Their coupling is new.  Has he noticed, have his fingers detected?  

Her story is long, her road is not, much like her mother’s. 

Photo by Christopher Stites on Unsplash

Written with the prompts: thank God none of this is real, write what first comes to mind, caffeine, cats and cuss words, false red lips, stop, I needed contact with those who would give me welcome, the night is young.  Most prompts were massaged a bit here!

Theresa was under the impression that Facebook was a role-playing game.  Every morning when she logged on, she’d choose from one of her seven personas to assume that day.  Her first four personas were women:  Laurie, a nurse; Meredith, a Chanel lipstick and nail polish sales executive; Randy, a stay-at-home mom/web designer; and a teenager who’d recently decided to call herself Califia.  It was so fun.  One loved caffeine, another loved cats, and teenage Califia regularly let loose a steady stream of cuss words.  Good times.

Eventually Theresa decided to up her game and she created Facebook pages for a few phony men.  She was Albert, the light rail train driver, Stephen, the vice president of the Franklin Mint, and Tony, a well-connected young man who had just left Uber for the more lucrative field of medical marijuana delivery.

Theresa enjoyed starting off each day with a few quick posts about the weather, the season or whatever fruit was available to slice onto her Cheerios.  On a good morning, each of her people would make a quick comment, like a few posts, and wish everyone a happy day.  In the evenings she would choose one character who would dive deep into the alternating angst and wonder of daily life.  All of her people were generally optimistic and philosophical. Theresa liked them all.  They were all people she would want to spend time with, you know, if they actually existed.  She assumed all the other profiles on Facebook were equally fictional.  She found the virtual world to be surreal and comedic.  Thank God it wasn’t real.

One day she decided her people needed a little shaking up, so she invented a mysterious, dark personality named Twyla.  As a profile photo she used a pair of fake-looking red lips like the ones from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.  When she logged onto this Facebook page, she’d write the first thing that came to mind. Her posts were dog star trampoline red ink.  Sometimes she’d add a smidgeon of iced tea granite pink eye.  Other times she was in a blue rain mermaid blown leopard spots kind of mood.

Often she included photographs of reptiles and empty lots, dented car doors and burnt-out light bulbs. The list of Twyla’s followers exploded. Theresa set up Twyla’s account to run on Twitter and Instagram.   Theresa and Twyla were a sensation migraine nectarine cougar chardonnay burglary Tuesday.

Theresa shut down the pages for her other personas.  She became Twyla full time candy wrapper china bowl river reed journey.  She began to spout off this way in business meetings and on phone calls with her uptight sister.  She was Twyla, thrilled to have found a world that gave her welcome door stop paper plate spiritual quest moose drool.

“The night is young,” she posted every morning.

Photo by Tony Liao on Unsplash

Written with my Thursday night group with the prompts:  waffles at the Lucky Café, sure you’re ready for this, a little bit of sun, I’ve never had any goals, it doesn’t matter, I want my God scrambled, no ham, three daisies, counterintuitive, do you smell that, eyes silent, for fourteen days, dawdled, if I could see, 35 years ago, 54 holes, killing Tom wouldn’t stop him, love yourself first, like any other

“Do you smell that?” he asked me as we rounded the corner, and I had to smile.  

“Cinnamon, vanilla, maple syrup—am I right?”  

He ushered me into the Lucky Café, ordered the Belgian waffles, two plates of scrambled eggs, vegan sausage, no ham.  It was an opulent spread.  I was young and eager to be impressed.  While waiting for our breakfast, he slipped three daisies out of the vase on the counter and began to weave them into my braids.  I had waist long hair back then, and his ministrations made me giggle.  Oh, he was a charmer, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d leave me crying.  The waffles came and he ordered extra strawberries on the side.  Enjoy it while it lasts, I told myself.

Tom was a welcome tonic from the MBA/suit types I’d been dating since college.  “Goals?” he echoed.  “I’ve never had any set goals.  I know it’s counterintuitive; I believe in setting intention, and in paying attention, watching if I can see—you know—what evolves.”

He spoke in a rhythmic patter, as if his musings were song lyrics, gems he was spontaneously spouting for future collection.

“In essence,” he concluded as he sipped his coffee, “it doesn’t matter.  Few things do.  Nothing matters at all except learning to love you!  Love yourself.  First.  Love yourself.”

I watched him with silent eyes.  He seemed unconcerned as I dawdled over breakfast, saying little.

“When you’re done,” he announced, “we’ll go out for a little bit of sun.”

I agreed for 14 days, and 54 holes in the fabric of space and time.  We lived a lifetime, 35 years ago, and 35 years into the future.  We were musicians and poets, shopkeepers and accountants, social workers, politicians, mystics, and care givers for babies and the elderly.  He watched me give birth a half dozen times, and every six months he’d decide to die.  I even shot him once in a fit of rage when I caught him cheating on me, but killing Tom wouldn’t stop him.  For me he was that one, that focal point that twisted my path in a different direction.  But every time I met him, there were waffles, there were strawberries, there was the Lucky Café.  

“I’ll take my God scrambled,” he says to the wait staff each time we sit down at the counter, and then it begins again.  He turns to me.  “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asks.

“Hit it,” I say again and again.

Photo by Tangerine Newt on Unsplash

Written with my Thursday night group with the prompts:  discombobulated, rhinoceros, rising sun, in this photograph, 1968

In this photograph, Jack is playing guitar for the children at the weekly sing-along.  He’d been doing it for decades, ever since I’d started teaching kindergarten when we were newly-weds. We’d continued the tradition even after I’d retired.  It was fun for us, and for the children too.  See how they’re gathered round him, all smiling.  And here, in this shot, they look serene, each mouth a perfect round o as they sing with him.

Lately he’d been including a lot of the old folk songs we used to sing during our activist days—Blowing in the Wind, We Shall Overcome, We Shall Not Be Moved.  I didn’t see anything wrong with that.  He didn’t mean anything by it.  Maybe House of the Rising Sun was a bridge too far, I don’t know.  Some of the parents said I should have been monitoring his set list, as if the whole thing was my fault.  I just don’t know what to say to that.  What could they possibly mean?  Maybe I’m just naïve.  

My favorite part of the House of the Rising Sun is the line about the narrator’s mother sewing his new blue jeans.  That always took me right back to 1968, when my mother taught me to do a little cross stitch on samplers and pillows, but all the girls were embroidering daisies and butterflies on the back pockets and worn knees of our levis. That’s what I wanted to do but I wasn’t very good at it.  At the craft store, they had these patches you could buy, mostly roses and peace signs, but I was attracted to the Disney characters, Tinkerbell and Minnie Mouse.  Then I saw the Seven Dwarves—and I decided on Bashful, the least remembered Dwarf.  Admit it, you don’t remember him, do you?  But he became my good luck charm.  

I was wearing those jeans when I met Jack at the winter carnival.  Jack was an extrovert.  He liked the spotlight, and I liked him.  He kept me safe.

The special thing about this photo was that it was the last happy time.  The kids were on their feet, singing and swaying, and Jack’s voice was clear of all the congestion that’d been plaguing him since February.  He sounded good.  He had nearly finished the song, and was holding that last note for dramatic effect, when the rhinoceros stampede broke through the cafeteria door.  They came up through the back, hurtling over the stage where Jack sat a bit elevated above the children.  I like to think they were calmed by Jack’s fancy fret work, because they slowed down a bit, giving us time to pull the children off to the side, and under the tables. So you see, Jack was the only one they carried off.  None of the children were hurt, though I suppose it was a discombobulating thing to witness.  The kids wanted to run out after Jack and the herd, but Mrs. Hardy screamed louder than I’ve ever heard a principal scream, and the kids sat down, chattering and bobbing like ocean waves on the cafeteria floor.  I was stunned, stiff as a statue, staring at the spot where my husband had sat, his guitar looking abandoned on the edge of the stage.

At the community meeting later, more than one parent seemed to think Jack had summoned the rhinoceroses, as if he was some kind of a wizard who’d called them indoors with the protest songs.  Mrs. Hardy told them this was nonsense of course, but I was suddenly bashful again, more so than ever.  I refused to speak, and most people were sympathetic to my grief.  But I just didn’t want to give anything away.

Jack often told me he had an inkling he’d go suddenly.  That I should be prepared.  Well, I’d always handled the finances and the computer repairs, so I wasn’t too worried.  But this was nothing I could have anticipated.  

I set his guitar in his favorite chair in the den where he often played along with YouTube videos for practice.  Sometimes when I’m in the garden or down in the cellar, I swear I hear his strumming and his humming.  When I sneak up the back steps, as quiet as I can, and creep down the hallway, I’ll still hear the music low and persistent.  But when I peek into the room, there’s nobody and nothing, no sound, no music.  It’s okay.  I’m not worried.  

I kind of like being alone, especially in the evening when it’s quiet and dark.  But lately, I can’t help but wonder:  what flock, what herd, what murmuration, or murder will come for me?

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash