Welcome_to_November_NNWM2011_01_Epiphany.01
Holly Mews dropped the brochure on the desk and looked across the small, empty room.
Remnants of children, friends, parties, and fights lay strewn across the floor; bits of toys, books, silverware, and furniture sat solemnly. The quiet, vertical aquarium stood humming, a reminder that some things did not change.
Aspects of the brochure's contents came to mind; unbidden, the well-known musical numbers filled Holly's head and she felt her attention spliced as she planned her tomorrow. In her mind's eye, she could vaguely sense the frustration, hope, dread, and intensity of training for a live stage performance. Seeing an angry stage hands interrupt one minor catastrophe after another helped tear hear away from washing one more load of clothing, mending one more pair of pants, scrub one more unrepentant bathroom tile.
It was the middle of the second act when Holly realized her phone was ringing; remembering she had placed it atop the bookcase two rooms away, she dashed around the corner. Narrowly missing the small book fort her three-year-old nephew had built, Holly reached the phone just as the screen displayed the missed-call form.
The mocking, repetitive, yellow light of a message told her the length of the message - and the number told her it was the mortgage lenders again. Holding the phone two hands, Holly leaned her back against the bookcase and slid down. The warm, hard wood was comforting and it felt like a small hug.
But it was enough.
Remnants of children, friends, parties, and fights lay strewn across the floor; bits of toys, books, silverware, and furniture sat solemnly. The quiet, vertical aquarium stood humming, a reminder that some things did not change.
Aspects of the brochure's contents came to mind; unbidden, the well-known musical numbers filled Holly's head and she felt her attention spliced as she planned her tomorrow. In her mind's eye, she could vaguely sense the frustration, hope, dread, and intensity of training for a live stage performance. Seeing an angry stage hands interrupt one minor catastrophe after another helped tear hear away from washing one more load of clothing, mending one more pair of pants, scrub one more unrepentant bathroom tile.
It was the middle of the second act when Holly realized her phone was ringing; remembering she had placed it atop the bookcase two rooms away, she dashed around the corner. Narrowly missing the small book fort her three-year-old nephew had built, Holly reached the phone just as the screen displayed the missed-call form.
The mocking, repetitive, yellow light of a message told her the length of the message - and the number told her it was the mortgage lenders again. Holding the phone two hands, Holly leaned her back against the bookcase and slid down. The warm, hard wood was comforting and it felt like a small hug.
But it was enough.
Comments