The Forrest

 

The sky held an eerie hue as Sarah navigated down the wooded path. It was reminiscent of the bloody ooze of an infected cut, a sickly beige with streaks of crimson along the edges. She heard the crunch of dead leaves beneath her feet with every step. Behind her, she sensed a presence, the only sign of it in the form of a subtle electricity buzzing through the ground.  An uneasiness over came her and she suddenly had to fight the urge to run, desperate for the safety of her living room.

 

“Keep your cool”, she said to herself as she stopped, listening intently for any sounds that might confirm her intuition.  There were none. “No one is there, you are being ridiculous.” She thought, while glancing at her cell phone. “Oh MAN!” She yelled out as she realized it was down to 12% battery life. She had several miles to go, and the sky was getting darker with every passing moment. She thought of the battery backup her mother had gifted her for her birthday the previous year, sitting on her dresser at home. A lot of good that would do her. She picked up the pace, realizing that she would not be able to use her cell phones flashlight when it got dark, at least not for long. She needed to make it through the dense woods to the barn by the old Sullivan place on the edge of town, while there was a little light left, or risk tripping and falling on one of the many mangled roots or fallen trees in the woods.  

 

An owl bellowed a great “Whooooooooooooo Whoooooooooooooo” from its perch just ahead, with an intensity that seemed to warn, “beware, danger lies ahead”. She wanted to listen but knew that there was no turning back now.  She could not shake the sense that she was not alone, as she glanced over her shoulder expecting to see a dark shadow in the distance, but instead she saw only the leaves of the trees rustling in the wind. There was something off in their rhythm. As if their movements were out of sync with the breeze. The trees themselves seemed almost human-like in their stature, standing tall reaching their limbs up toward the dark sky. The knots in their rugged trunks resembling eyes or mouths, screaming silently in the night.

 

Sarah felt her heartbeat quicken and fear constrict her throat, as she thought about Petey Jackson who had vanished 3 weeks earlier. His parents had been on the news almost daily begging for help in finding him. The police had found only one clue, his backpack laying on the road on the edge of the woods. Her breathing became heavier as she felt panic settle upon her. She had been in these woods a thousand times, but lately she had felt a sense of foreboding every time she had gotten close to them. She had a feeling of being both drawn into them and repelled by them. It was as if a force was pulling her in to be consumed by the vastness of the forest. With every step that brought her closer, she became more terrified of the possibility of being lost to it.

 

The sound of a broken branch to her right snapped her to attention. She whipped her head toward it and saw the eyes of a large wolf reflecting back at her. Sarah froze, afraid that if she moved a muscle, the wolf would pounce upon her. Instead, the wolf walked slowly toward the path ahead of her, never breaking eye contact, as if beckoning her to follow it. She stepped out toward the wolf, powerless to resist its call to her, succumbing to its will. She followed the wolf as it moved down the path.  It seemed as if she had been walking only a few steps when she realized that the wolf had led her to a place she had never seen before. She was very confused, as the woods had been her playground for most of her life. She had explored every inch of it between Cantonville, where she attended Penrose School, and St Maude where she had grown up in the house her Great Grandfather had built 100 years ago.  She knew these woods, but she had never been to this spot. Sarah had no idea where she was or how to get back. Her cell phone was down to 2% and she had no signal. She stifled the tears that threatened to roll down her face.

 

Sarah looked around, to her left, a pond shadowed by the blackness of dead trees. To her right an open glen area riddled with branches, and rocks, straight ahead, a mound of stones as tall as she was rounded at the bottom and flattened at the top, erected next to a small wooden shack. As she edged closer to the shack, she realized that it had no windows, but that she could see the brightness of candlelight coming from the crack beneath the door. The wolf was nowhere to be seen. She smelled the scent of food cooking over a  woo fire, and suddenly she was famished. As she made her way toward the door of the shanty, she noticed a tree stump with a rusty axe buried in it, next to a pile of wood. And a large tarp covering what she assumed was a cord of firewood to warm the hearth of this place through the cold Winter. 

 

Sarah took a deep breath as she knocked on the door. “Hello, is anyone there? She asked. She heard movement from the other side of the door but after a few moments, the door remained closed.  She said, “My name is Sarah” as she rapped once again on the wooden door. “I’m afraid I am lost, can you point me in the direction of St. Maude?” She asked.  Slowly the light poured out from the little house, as the door opened. Before her stood a disheveled woman. She must have been about 4’10, dressed in a raggedy cotton dress. Her hair was matted and her face covered in soot. “Come in my dear. You must be freezing.”, said the woman. At that moment, Sarah realized she was. 

 

Sarah stepped into the shack and welcomed the warmth of the fire, “Do you have a phone?” She asked? I need to call my parents but my cell phone has no signal out here. “No dear, I don’t. But don’t worry, my son will be home soon and he has a satellite phone. take a seat and warm yourself.” The woman handed Sarah a cup of cocoa, and Sarah sipped on it, grateful for the warmth, but uncomfortable in the presence of this strange woman.  Nevertheless she was glad as the hot liquid warmed her inside and out. Sarah looked around the room, every corner filled with saplings in various stages of growth. Some were barely sprouted, others a foot tall, ready to be transplanted. She felt as if she were in a greenhouse. “Are these all trees?” She asked the woman who looked at her and smiled, with an almost sinister curve to her mouth. “They are BECOMING. Aren’t you Peter?” she said, speaking to both Sarah, and the young tree in the corner. 

 

“Peter?” Sarah said, quizzically.

 

“Yes, Peter is a good, strong boy. He is going to be in this forest for hundreds of years. We all start off as something, don’t we?” She said.

 

“Ooookay” Sarah replied, suddenly wishing she had kept walking past this peculiar woman’s home.  “I thank you for letting me warm up, but I had better be going. If you could just point me back toward St Maude? My parents will be so worried.” 

 

“Nonsense my child.” Said the woman. “My son will be home any moment. He can help. Besides, you are not ready for these woods yet. Is she Peter?” 

 

It was then that Sarah noticed the pot that the woman was speaking to. In the ceramic container, was a sapling. It appeared to be a baby oak, based upon the shape of the tiny leaves. It had been lovingly tended to an looked to be a strong and healthy plant, well on its way to becoming a hundred year old tree. Sarah realized that there was something at the base, protruding from the soil. She leaned forward to get a closer look. Panic completely overtook her as she recognized him. It was the face that had been all over her television for the last several weeks.  With horror, she realized it was Petey Jackson, looking up at her, sapling tendrils growing from his nostrils and ears.

 

Sarah tried to jump up and run out, but realized that she felt a heaviness that kept her in her chair. Sarah felt the old woman take her cup from her hands as she felt her eyes grow too heavy to keep open.”  

 

“Look Peter, I found you a friend, I am sure she will grow on you.” The woman said, as Sarah lost consciousness, destined to become consumed by the forest, just as Petey Jackson had.

 

The Bloop - Rhyming Story Contest - Horror -

My name is Anton Iroh, and I’ve a tale to share,

Of danger and great peril, a warning to beware.

It is the story of my ending, which I only share,

To caution you about the Bloop, in mind of your welfare. 

 

One morning I got ready for a trip upon the seas.

For working as a sailor, had been my expertise.

Sack filled with provisions, for all possibilities.

But I forgot to wind my timepiece, a choice which would displease.

 

The skies were filled with angst that day, I walked down to the pier.

A dark and eerie feeling promised trouble would appear.

But I walked on in spite of it, fist tight upon my gear,

And as I did, an awful feeling, gripped my chest with fear.

 

When I arrived in Harbortown, no glance would reach my eye.

Men looked away with quickened step, as they walked on by.

They moved so fast that they were gone before I could ask “why?”

I wondered if they felt the same strange, sense of dread as I.

 

Shaking off the sense of dread, filling heavy air.

I focused on my timepiece, seeing I had time to spare.

I walked into a tavern selling, wines from everywhere,

And called upon the barman, as I sat upon the chair.

 

“Pardon good sir,” I said to him, his back turned away,

“I wonder if you have, a calming drink for me today?”

He turned to me, and begged unspoken warning to convey.

Instead he placed a cup before me, and quietly said, “Pray.”

 

I thought it strange but drained my cup, looking at the time.

Realizing none had passed, as I drank my wine.

My timepiece had stopped moving, no tick, no tock, no chime.

“Watch out for the Bloop”, he said, as I left the man his dime. 

 

Running to the waterfront, to climb aboard my ship,

I thought not of the warning, only searched for Heavens Clip.

I’d missed my boat, I realized, as I reached the slip,

And found anchored in its stead, the S.S. Neptunes Grip.

 

The vessel welcomed me aboard, knowing I’d thought twice.

The wooden planks, worn and warped, barely would suffice.

The captain came with warning, “Don’t let the ship entice,

The skies will show this trip to bring, a sailors’ sacrifice.”

 

I almost turned, right back around, finding my way home,

But instead, we set to sail, on to the unknown.

Crew looked upon the waters, sudden urge to atone,

As if the seas before them, were to be their catacomb.

 

As night befell the schooner, I feared to close my eyes.

The darkness sank around us, from the blackened, empty skies.

I heard a terrorizing sound, as if the oceans’ cries.

A sound so awful that I swore, a demon would arise.

 

The sickening sound reminded me, of grinding bone on bone.

As if Hell itself, was dragging man down to its fiery throne.

I wanted to run, needed to hide, my fear was overgrown.

My instincts told me, this would end, in fire and brimstone.

 

 

“What is that sound mate?” I beseeched, as I held on to the sloop,

“The creature of deep,” He whispered in fear, as he looked upon the group.

“We must give up one, to save 99, so that he won’t swoop.”

They all froze in fear, having heard tales, of the creature known as The Bloop.

 

I thought of the strange barkeep, his final warning tolled,

And felt myself be lifted, as the seas below me rolled.

Somehow the crew determined that MY soul would be sold,

In place of all the others, to the seas the Bloop patrolled.

 

The Bloop was enormous, complete with gill and fin.

His razor-sharp teeth equipped, to rip both bone and skin.

His eyes held the death of sailors, his victims from within.

I prayed to God for quickened death, and forgiveness of my sin.

 

As I held my breath and braced, for death’s untimely knock,

I felt my focused senses dull; my body went to shock.

And realized this ending, would have been from different stock,

If only I had paused enough, to be sure to wind my clock.

 

So if a terrible sound you hear, as you sail upon the sea,

Turn back around, change your course, so you can remain free.

Or Darkness just may seek you out, for soul captivity,

And the Bloop might swallow you up whole, just as he did me.

 

 

 

Source of Strength

 

Strength.  It is something we strive to have in life.  Athletes and non-athletes alike, push themselves to the point of their physical capacity and beyond to build it, both in muscle and endurance.  Doctors prescribe patients medications and vitamins in order to maximize the strength of anatomical systems and health.  Mothers call upon every ability in their bodies to gather the strength necessary to bring life in the world.  Parents dig deep and find a lot more in order to brave the sometimes tumultuous waters of raising healthy children and maintaining their other relationships and responsibilities.  We are taught that we can become anything we want to become, we can overcome any hardship so long as we have the strength.  Strength of character, strength of body and strength of body to fight through to the end.  We are taught this, and we believe it.

 The problem with strength as we know it, is that when you have it.  Others see it.  People around you begin to associate you with it, and you develop a reputation for being the strong one.  Doesnt sound so bad right?  It isnt so bad.  Most of the time.  But when people associate you with strength, they expect you to have it all the time.  Even more so, they DEPEND upon you to have it.  Especially if they don’t.  So what happens when you don’t have it?  What happens if you get tired?  What happens if you have been strong so long that you begin to see the possibility of having a moment of weakness, as a non-option? 

What happens is disappointment and failure.  Those that depend upon you see you as not measuring up to what they expect of you. They see you as not caring enough, not loving enough, not being enough.  You fail.  If you fail long enough, you become the reason.  The reason that those who you have tried to hold up for so long, struggle. The reason they are unhappy.  The reason they want to die.  At least that is what they want you to think.  This is where true strength becomes important. 

 Sometimes true strength  isn’t measured in the number of  pounds that you can lift, or miles you can run or pain you can withstand.  Sometimes true strength is simply the ability to keep your head on straight in the midst of trying times.  Sometimes it is no more or less than the ability to pick yourself up, bloodied and bruised after being pelted with the rocks of life and believe you can (enter objective here).  To be able to stand tall and see yourself as valuable, and beautiful (handsome), worthy and as a success because you continue.  Sometimes strength is realizing that you can be somebody else’s "reason" for failure or you can be "reason" enough to take another leap forward, for yourself.  For your children and for your future. This is what the embodiment of strength is. 

 Even more importantly, When the Bible speaks of strength -  time and time again it speaks of it as something that comes from God. Some reminders are, Philippians 4:13 I can do all things through Him who strengthens me".  Isaish 40:29 He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak".  "Corinthians 12:9"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weakness, so that Christs power may rest on me. That is why, for Christs sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties.  For when I am weak, then I am strong." Truth is that real strength comes from seeking and remembering the reason for all of this.  God.  We are all called according to HIS purpose, for HIS glory, not our own. I really needed this reminder today.  This is renewal.

American Bonetti

 The American Bonetti

In a small fishing village in Sicily,

Nineteen hundred and twenty-three

 

Lived a girl of fifteen named Lucia Bonetti,

With her father Fidelis and brother Rossetti.

 

Life had been hard as it sometimes can be,

Meager work for Fidelis to support the three.

 

He did what he could, to earn and to save,

Though always with sadness since his wife took her grave.

 

He saved every Lira as part of his scheme,

To take his shot at the American dream.

 

Months passed but finally he’d financed the trip,

For his family on a colossal steamship.

 

At last, the day came, they said their goodbyes.

Packing their clothes, and personal supplies.

 

“Why must we leave home Papa?” Lucia said.

“Bambina, we must go, your mother is dead.”

 

“There is nothing here for us anymore.

I want more for you than to be here, and poor.”

 

“There are great things to come, our hardship is brief.”

 but Lucia knew, Pa left to outlive his grief.

 

She wrapped her hand tightly inside of her pocket,

Around the gold chain that held Mama’s locket.

 

Taken from her dresser when no one saw,

Lucia’s secret treasure, tying her, to her Ma.

 

So, they sailed away together from Sicily,

On a ship called San Giorgio, to New York City.

 

Papa told the kids that the omen was great.

Saint George would protect them from plague and ill-fate.

 

The passage was long, and morale was bleak,

Cold, damp, cramped quarters, for the sick and the weak.

 

But by the grace of their patron saint,

Their arrival was mostly free of complaint.

 

They stepped off the ship, aligned single file and 

Joined thousands of immigrants at Ellis Island.

 

In long lines they waited to prove themselves able,

To build a new life, pay taxes, be stable.

 

Those who lacked funding or family to join,

Were sent back to their homeland with nary a coin.

 

When the time came, to determine their fate,

The Bonetti’s found themselves in a staunch stalemate.

 

The man at the counter demanded a bribe,

“Something for me, then your names I’ll inscribe.”

 

“Otherwise, it’s back home you go.

Decide quickly! See? The lines - they grow.”

 

Papa had nothing to offer this man.

No money to spare, no backup plan.

 

Lucia knew a return, Papa wouldn’t survive.

His heart so broken, he was barely alive.

 

All hope remained here, in this strange new land,

And so, from her pocket, she pulled out her hand.

 

She said not a word, her tongue-tied with fears.

As her fingers opened, her eyes filled with tears.

 

The man grabbed her treasure, without hesitation,

Mama’s locket ensuring their life in this Nation.

 

Papa was silent as they left that place.

But he lifted her chin and raised up her face.

 

She saw in his eyes, love, and hope steady,

And knew they were now the American Bonetti.

 

Lucia smiled as she thought of the life they would build,

And for the first time, in her heart, she was thrilled.

 

 

The Cost of Being Eternal

 The Cost of Being Eternal

I was born in 1972,

Long before the Great Ozone Death.

Back when the oceans and skies were still blue,

and oxygen filled every breath.

 

For decades we bathed in these fountains of youth,

Discovered in 2055.

Making lengthy our life and beauty our truth,

Addicted to the bodily revive.

  

We no longer have such a treasured pool,

Since Global Warming has withered it dry.

I now turn 200, an old desperate fool,

Fiending for a new “youth supply”.

 

As I feel my age heavy, and my health decline,

I know I must make drastic change.

Leaving this world far, far behind,

On a rocket ship I must arrange.

 

I gather the contents of my small estate,

To sell for fair cost in the market.

Every farthing and dollar go to my fate,

One ticket to Altair, my target.

 

They tell me that Altair will provide me my fix,

Blessed health and the beauty of a starlet.

I will live on forever, with other addicts,

A relapse of younger self incarnate.

 

I gather my daughter, her son, and some friends,

For dinner and one last farewell.

They promise to join me one day as Godsends,

We toast to LIFE with a nice Zinfandel.

 

I think of their faces as I climb aboard,

The shuttle that will carry me beyond.

My memories will be the umbilical cord,

Connecting us with their invisible bond.

 

As take-off ensues, I enjoy a deep sleep,

Courtesy of the drug they provided.

If counting sheep was the means, then I was Bo-Peep,

awakening only when Altair was sighted.

 

“Here we go,” I thought as I gathered my things,

And de-planed from the long journey made.

Greeted at the concourse by Altairlings,

Unaware of the impending slave trade.

 

At first my new life was beyond reproach,

Swimming in pristine pools of youth.

I felt age give way, to new life’s approach,

As rewarding, as sugar to a sweet tooth.

 

The weeks went by, as things slowly changed,

New curfew, limitations, and rules.

“Lights out at 7!” The “hostess” proclaimed,

Behind us doors lock in our vestibules.

 

When we awaken, they shuffle us in,

To cruisers with hard hats and tools.

Right past the waters that nourish our skin,

To caverns that house valuable jewels.

 

“There is no free ride!” with outrage they scream,

“It’s time you fools earn your keep!”

“You’ve incurred a debt! It’s your youth we redeem!”

“What you have sown, you must also reap!”

 

And so we work, in their dark dusty mines,

Digging jewels from sunup to sundown.

Exchanging our freedom for their confines,

Immortality, under lockdown.

 

If we step out of line, or our yield is small,

We are met with harsh words and beatings.

It’s man against man, as we work for a haul,

And each of us dreams of conceding.

 

For one hour daily, I soak in the lake,

Getting the fix that I crave.

And think of my daughter and grandson Jake,

Scared they’ll arrive in the next wave.

 

I must find a way, to tell them to stay,

Where they have freedom for living. 

A natural life, With age and decay,

I see now is a thing for Thanksgiving.

 

And so, I dig, under great strain and toil,

Swiftly enacting my plan.

Plucking a jewel, from beneath the soil,

Once sold! I go back where I began.

 

I know full and well; this will mean my demise,

My days to come, numbered and few.

I’m ready for death, I realize,

If my family has their freedom to look to.

 

It has been a very long while since I have posted anything on this Blog. A friend of mine (Shout out to Israel) has reminded me that I have some things to say and I should say them! She said that this is my voice - the way that you will get to know me!

 The Burden of Potential

Grace was a precocious child.  Her logic and thought processes were in many ways more mature than people 25 years her senior. Her parents would be the first to tell you, proudly and with an overwhelming love for this child that she was special. She looked at the world through innocent eyes.  Eyes that did not overcomplicate a situation.  This gave her the ability to approach difficulties with simple wisdom.  She was intelligent. She was beautiful. She was wise beyond her years and she had an incredible potential.  Potential which would haunt her as she matured.  Potential that as she aged, would cause her to be blind to simplicity, and would lead her to dismiss her own a value and gifts, as often happens in the process of growing up.

When she was 7 she learned first-hand about the circle of life.

The first to go was her best friend, Dawn.  A few weeks before Christmas, she was taken by a dark, icy Nebraska road. The car spun out and crashed, leaving the beautiful little blonde haired blue eyed child, trapped.  Grace learned later that Dawns frantic mother went from home to home – hysterically pounding on doors and pleading for help as her little girl lay alone, bleeding in the cold dark car.  By the time help arrived, it was too late.  Dawn was gone.   When Grace’s parents learned of this the next morning, they were devastated and left unsure of how to proceed with preparing their eldest child for this untimely news.  How could they help their child to understand this tragic loss, when they did not understand it themselves?  How could they help their child through the grief that she would certainly endure when they had no idea how to proceed through their own?

When she awoke the next morning, Grace began to get ready for school as she did every day. Her parents knew that the time was running short for them to determine the proper course of action. In just a few moments, she would be done eating. Her teeth would be brushed. She would put her coat on and would be ready to walk to school with Dawn as she did every morning.  There was no more time.  They had to act now. They had to devastate their child, possibly changing her forever.

They sat down with her, at the table and with tears in their eyes, explained to her that there had been a terrible accident and that in this accident, Dawn had died.  Perhaps they expected a lot of questions.  Perhaps they expected tears and anger and confusion. Certainly they expected fear.  They did not expect that this little child of theirs would be able see beyond the sadness and the human rationalizations about death and look up at them almost happily.  They didn’t expect that it would be so simple for her and they were humbled when she told them that Dawn was not dead, but that she was just going to live in Heaven with God and all of the angels.  They were humbled, by her simple faith.  It was so easy and clear to her.  It was not just silly innocence.  Somehow when Grace spoke these words, it came from a place that had reached full maturity in her short life.  It was a place in her soul that was fully developed.  She had this wise old soul in her fresh young physical being and they recognized in her a tremendous potential.

A few months later, the second lesson came.  This time it was her Grandmother.  Grace’s grandmother was one of the most important people in her little world. She had a special relationship with Grandma. When she was with her Grandma she felt such love.  Grandma’s house was a place of safety and comfort.  It was where tradition was born.  One of her favorite traditions was Sunday dinner at Grandmas house.  Every Sunday, Grace, her parents, and her little sister would meet at Grandmas house along with her 3 uncles, their wives and all of her cousins and they would have a fantastic Italian meal.  On special occasions Grandma would let her grandchildren have red wine in the beautiful cut crystal glasses.  Grace loved those glasses, and she felt so grown up sipping wine out of them.  She did not like the flavor of the wine as the tannins overwhelmed her young tastebuds, but she knew that somehow the wine represented God, and that her Grandma liked it – so she sipped it anyway. 

The last few months, Sunday dinners had been different.  Her Grandma had been sick.  She knew that.  Now, Grace’s Great-Grandmother had come from New York to help care for her Grandmother.  Great Grandmother looked at Grace with a tender love.  Grace was her namesake and her long brown hair, big brown eyes, and olive skin-tone reminded her of her own babies and of her homeland.  Grace loved being around her and she loved the smells from the kitchen when she was around.  As time went on there was a vulnerability and a sadness in her eyes though, and Grace somehow knew what it meant.  When Grandma could no longer get out of her bed to come to the table for Sunday dinners, Grace would go sit on her bed with her and would tell her storied and hold her hand.  Grace talked to God silently on those days.  She could see the pain in her eyes and she knew that soon, Grandma would go live in Heaven with God and the Angels and Dawn.  She was right.

When it happened, Grace and her sister and parents went to New York with her uncles, and their wives and all of the cousins for the funeral.  When they arrived Grace was amazed at all of the family that she met.  There were so many Aunts and Uncles and Cousins there.  It was like all the Sunday dinners that had been the tradition throughout her life.  Everyone was so sad because they missed her Grandmother, but Grace felt her there.  She knew that she was in Heaven, but somehow she felt her there with them.  She didn’t wonder how. She didn’t question whether it was real.  She knew it was.  She had such faith that there was no room for doubt or inquiry.  She simply knew.

By the time the third lesson came, Grace had realized that death changes the living.  She had witnessed this change in those around her.  Her father had a very difficult time dealing with the death of his beloved mother.  Grace saw her playful, silly Daddy withdraw, and become angry and sad.  When her family moved into Grandmas house, Grace felt immediate safety and comfort.  To her she saw the reminder of Grandma in every room and each time she entered a room, she felt as if she was walking into the loving arms of her Grandmothers embrace.  For her father however, every reminder of his mother cut into him as a jagged piece of glass ripping his flesh open again, as it tried in vain to heal.  His meals were prepared in his mothers’ kitchen and they tasted just a little bitter. The sounds of his children playing on his mothers’ piano hurt his ears and his sleep was unsettled as he slept in his mothers’ room.  There was no comfort here, only the reminder that his mother had left him.  Grace knew that a part of her father was buried in Buffalo, NY with his mother. 

The third lesson however, was not Graces dad, it was her namesake. Her great-grandmother.  Watching her child suffer as she did. Witnessing her body break under the weight of cancer, had a similar impact on Great Grandmother.  She was changed by her grief.  She was burdened by the heaviness of how she had seen her child suffer.  Truth be told, her heart broke when she buried her daughter, and she never recovered.  8 months after being devastated by this loss, Great Grandmother went to Heaven to live with God and the angels, and Dawn and Grandma.  To Grace it was simple.  She would not have to be sad anymore – she got to go have Sunday dinners with Grandma.  She would drink red wine out of the prettiest glasses in heaven and she would smile again. 

Grace knew though, that others would be changed by the death of her great grandmother, just as her Daddy, and Uncles and Great grandmother had been changed when her grandma had died.  Just as Dawns Mom had been changed when Dawn died.  It was what death seemed to do to grow-ups.  It wasn’t simple for them.  They complicated things.  What was a simple transition of being from one place to another to her, was so busy and polluted to them.  To the adults in the room, the passing of these loved ones, was not about those who had passed.  To the adults in the room, the death centered around those left standing in the room.  Ingrown up loss and grief, the world revolves around the living.  The focus is about how hard it will be for the living to go on, suffering and grieving. To the adults, those who were gone, simply ceased to be.  This is often true in spite of deep seeded religious beliefs.  Adults lose the magic of imagination and creativity, because they lose the ability to see anything imagined, as real or legitimate.  But to the child in the room, the passing of the love one is centered on the love one lost.  Grace did not see the situation as if she had lost her loved ones.  To Grace, they had been transformed to their favorite storybook land and there they would live on. 

It is funny how the wisdom of a child can have such profound impact on adults when it is shared.  Their innocence provides such clear vision.  But life muddles the innocence of children. It changes them, just as death does.  Graces parents had been changed by both life and death.  Their vision was cloudy. They watched their child process the tragedies that had impacted her world, yet did not seem to be impacting her as they expected, and they knew she had tremendous potential.  In fact they were counting on it.  Her potential gave hope that all was not lost for them.