It's Friday (as I write this) so that can mean only one thing....
Flash! Friday.
I had another inspired week, coming up with two tear-jerkers. We were asked to include as a thematic element a fleeting moment, and work from this picture.
I posted the first story, "Stealing," pretty early. If I may blow my own horn, it's gotten a lot of favorable comments.
By law, every room at a daycare center
must have a direct exit to the outside.
That's critical.
Sitting in the office, talking to the
center's director, I pray she can't tell I'm sweating bullets. I try
to be cool, but then nearly blow it when she asks my name, and I
start to give my real one.
As she drones on about the center's
certifications and award programs, I stare at the claustrophobic
walls. The photos mock me. Happy parents, happy children.
I hate myself right now. But
desperation often consumes one's morality.
The director walks me to the "big
room," where toddlers play on the floor. The red sign to
salvation is straight ahead. I look out a window and see the bus one
stop away. It's time to move. I reach into my pocket and finger my
cell phone, speed-dialing the number I had entered outside. A distant
phone rings.
"Excuse me a minute," she
says.
My legs will me to the door. I put my
hand on the cold metal and freeze. I look back. She's watching me.
I run over, give her a quick hug, and
whisper, "Daddy's gonna miss you. But don't worry. They'll take
care of you."
Then I disappear from her life.
Then came "Waiting, Always."
Until the day he died, Louis stood
waiting for her. Waiting for his Chloe to emerge from the Métro
station and cross the Place de la République. She would see him, and
smile. He would kiss her lightly on the cheek, then take her
hand and walk her home.
They might not have met were it not for
a moment's intrusion. One rainy April afternoon, as Chloe crossed the
cheerless Place, a passel of pigeons took flight. Startled, she
recoiled and deposited the contents of her sodden umbrella on a man
passing by.
She blushed.
Je suis vraiment désolée.
Louis
simply beamed.
They
were the unlikeliest of matches. She, an advocate. He, a laborer. She
might not have given him a second look, had she not noticed the grace
with which he shucked the water from himself. Taking an
uncharacteristic gamble, she asked if he, by chance, enjoyed dancing.
Mais
oui. Beaucoup.
That magical moment eased into 45 years
of wedded bliss, three children, and eight grandchildren.
And so, until the day he died, Louis
stood waiting for her. Waiting for his Chloe to emerge from the Métro
station and cross the Place de la République.
Even
though his Chloe had passed ten years before him.
And tomorrow, look for my latest Janet Reid entry.
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