Dear Reader,
Today our guest writer is Sandra Rafter, one of the 2021 Honorable Mentions from my Write a Dear Reader Contest. The quality of writing in the 2021 Write a DearReader Contest was outstanding. Thank you so much Sandra for sharing your work with us.
I've been afraid in my life.
As a youngster, Roy Rogers jerked his head back just in time. The bullet with his name shattered the rock behind him and tiny stone pellets almost seemed to split into my cheek.
All of us in 3rd grade crouched on the cold marble floor at school waiting for the bomb to explode over our heads. Ten of us might die staring at the picture of Lincoln and some of us would live for the next Russian death drill.
At quarter moon, a skeleton reached its arms from under the bed and grey bone claw fingers pulled at my sheet until I opened my eyes and screamed and screamed.
We practiced dance steps with the boys in gym class. Boys chose girls as partners for the real dance. Then, there were two girls left, and I was last. I was alone. I hurt.
There was that awful day when the road was icy when I braked, and the car slid without my steering toward the white concrete barriers no longer side of the road but floating ever so slowly over the windshield missing me and the glass but crushing my right fender and tire.
I watched submarine movies--John Wayne, Cary Grant, Glen Ford--sailor heroes, with rushing water and fire from a depth charge around them and their breath faint. My mother was diagnosed with lung cancer, the sea of disease enclosed her. I gasped along with her raspy cough.
I lived my worries and hurts and knew them like Christmas presents I didn't want but accepted stoically, sometimes, with a brave smile.
I've learned to tamp down the fire of my fears, go along, try not to be too selfish. But, I saw a hermit's cabin in a museum. Small, tight, no extras, but none needed--a place to yearn for these days of pandemic. Outside my house I often seem to be picking daisies.
This petal you live, this petal you die, you live, you die, live, die.
Never so much before as this time in my life, I recede inside myself, aware I can picture winning four million in the lottery but cannot face the terrible truth and loneliness of four million Covid deaths.
Still, I believe this, we may sigh, but survive--fear vanquished, hands entwined, eye to eye, stride by stride, you and I. We hold our hands forever in hope with light near and far. I have been frightened, have hidden, and cried. But, we persevere. We live both silent and bold. Isn't hope trusting beyond ourselves?
-- Sandra Rafter
Honorable Mention, 2021 Write a DearReader Contest
Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.
Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@DearReader.com
AUTHORBUZZ: Discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.
This month's Penguin Classics book is HOW THE GARCIA GIRLS LOST THEIR ACCENTS, by Julia Alvarez, with a foreword by Elizabeth Acevedo. I have a copy of the book to share with a lucky reader, so start reading and enter for your chance to win.
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