Sunday, March 19, 2017

Letting Go

One of my favorite poems is The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. I've thought of that so often in my life, not just for myself, but for people I love. It's especially hard for family members when they want the best for a loved one but they choose a destructive path. Eventually, you have to let go...in spite of heartache and worry. You have no choice because you aren't helping. They don't hear you. So, you pray they will find their way back and reach their own understanding. I have found, in my own life, that the easy road is seldom the right one...and a loving and trusted family member is always the one to listen to.

Robert, in Pages in the Wind, convinces his sister to move to Boston for a new life. But when a boy she loves returns, she let's go of her brother's plan to get her away from a horrid situation and chooses to go with the boy. But not without seconds thoughts...that may prove to be too late:


The jet climbed into the darkness. The promise of a new life away from Father, Lesley College, and studying art was gone. My body sagged, overcome with guilt that I couldn't make Robert understand that I had to follow the yearning in my heart. I turned, wiped the tears away, and began walking in the direction of my life with Reid.


I had to turn around. A strange breeze lingered, whispering in my ear, warning me to consider my brother's words. Robert had told me home was very dark and begged me not to go back there. He said I didn't have enough light to fight Father. He would have explained everything on the plane. Now I might never know. I looked up and stared at the empty space where he had flown away. Something in the dark void warned me I lost much more than a promise of a new life.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Connections

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Have you gone somewhere and knew you'd been there before? Met someone and felt an instant connection? What about a snapshot in your mind that disappeared?
In Pages in the Wind, Emily visits her old neighborhood, which triggers questions and feelings. A murky picture that doesn't quite come into focus:
As I closed the car door, I wondered what Mrs. Hemet meant about my being "through so much." The words made me think of my destroyed artwork. I missed looking at the pictures of Grandma and Penelope. My memories of Grandma were still strong; I thought of her every time I passed a lemon tree or smelled the sweet scent of pastries. But I had nothing of Penelope except the sound of her giggle.
I walked to the fence and unlatched the gate, gazing at the spot where I'd hidden the box. It physically hurt knowing the sketches were hidden, but I promised myself I would piece them back together someday. I had to. The drawings held answers to secrets; I felt it in my heart. Those torn pages held the truth about why my sister died, my mother couldn't embrace me, and Father hated me. Someday I would figure out why I lived a tortured life, half at the hand of my father and half at my own.
An icy wind ripped through me, and the air became bitter cold. I gripped my shivery body and put my head down so the sudden cold wouldn't numb my face. After a few seconds, I lifted my head, wide-eyed. The atmosphere was sultry and warm and the air as calm as a sleeping baby.