Linda Smith-McCormick
Fort Wayne, Indiana
Congratulations Linda!
Linda’s Bio:
I've performed as a stage actor, stand-up comedienne and in comedy improvisation troupes. Now, at 59 and almost grown-up, I’m pursuing my life-long love affair with writing. My other passion is celebrating and empowering plus-sized women (like me) to dance their creative dreams--body size doesn't matter, the size of mind and heart does.
Mostly my writing features fat heroines (yes, I said fat) including a feature-length screenplay, a collection of 13 short stories and a mystery/crime novel in progress.
Finally, to WOW! and all who entered, I congratulate YOU!
Email: picklehaha@aol.com.
My web site and blog are very new, so please be patient.
www.FatLadyFiction.com and http://FatLadyFiction.blogspot.com
Love is a Plastic Rose
This time will be different, I had decided--no tears, no longing, no melancholy. I’d pretend mom and dad were alive and well, sitting on our old front porch swing, grinning and waving as I pulled up. Easy to do—a scenario repeated so often years before.
I walked up to the familiar headstone—SMITH. “We have the place to ourselves, today,” I said to their spirits in my cheeriest voice. “Stopped by for some lemonade and to say I love you.”
I sat on the grass. “Also want to say something I wish I’d said when you were both still here.” I plucked a few weeds creeping toward the engraved H.
“Remember, mom, dad, when you rented a cabin on Lake of the Woodsin Michigan? You’d saved every nickel because you promised us kids we could experience living on a lake, even if only for a week. Jimmy was twelve, I was nine and Betsy was two. Going to the moon couldn’t have made us more excited with anticipation.”
A weird noise startled me. Incredibly, I recognized the sound--the dull, metal clank of that old swing’s rusty chain. I smiled. They were listening.
“And on the drive up, we stopped at a roadside picnic table. I remember our ’56 Chevy wagon, stinky mosquito-spray and the taste of hotdogs cooked on that small, charcoal grill.” I chuckled. “Bet if Norman Rockwell had wandered by, he surely would've painted us!”
Slowly, I slid my palm over their beloved names—Charles, Doris. “That week was so wonderful. But I came here to thank you, not for the swimming and boating, but for the most cherished memory of my life.”
A nosy bee hovered then buzzed away. “Remember our first night in that dank, musty cabin? We’d all gone to bed, and you both complained how bad your bed’s springs were? How with each little movement the whole bed swayed side to side and back and forth to the point of being ridiculous?”
I scooted closer. “Then, dad, you jokingly hollered Hey, where’s the oars to this boat? And remember how we all howled and howled with laughter? And when we’d finally start to quiet down, someone would start up again and we’d all erupt simultaneously, laughing and guffawing ‘til it hurt? Well, that memory is pure bliss for me.”
Leaning over, I placed a long kiss on each of their names. “Thank you for your love, mom and dad—it was everything. It is everything.”
Moments later, I put my car in gear. A single, artificial flower, wind-blown from someone’s grave, somersaulted toward me. It rolled to a stop right by my door. I hesitated, wondering if it was a little gift from my parents. No, I thought, that’s silly.
On impulse, I opened my door to grab the frayed, faded rose. There on the ground was my new, expensive cell phone. It had slipped out of my pocket.
I still have the rose.
***