Excerpt of Senior Thesis, 2010

Excerpt taken from Senior Thesis on Femal Genital Mutilation
2010
By Rachel Mead

             The world has shrunk due to the expansion of people and the advancement of technology. In order to effectively manage nations and encourage cooperation among one another, organizations such as the United Nations have been formed.  However, it is evident that such organizations have adopted a Western cultural attitude to many social, political and economic policies.  By doing so, Western society has taken the advantage to thrust its own cultural norms upon various non-Western nations.  For instance, Female Genital Cutting, FGC, has been a ceremonious tradition for a number of centuries among various cultures.  It has also been labeled a heinous and dangerous act by Western society.  Yet, similar operations practiced within Western society have been positively advertised and encouraged.  The cultural practices of the West and non-West and how the West became dominant in international society will be examined.  Also the primary goal will be to explore cultural practices and beliefs, so that the negative aspects of FGC may be eliminated, but the positive cultural beliefs behind the practice remain intact.  In order to reach this goal an in-depth examination of FGC will take place and the importance of how other cultures view this practice will be discussed.   

            The choice to use the term, female genital cutting, instead of female genital mutilation was purposeful and important to make point of.  Prior to reading various articles and research on FGC, I had only ever known the practice by FGM and assumed that was the “official” name. However, with more research containing different viewpoints, it became clear that there are various names for the practice.  The conflict about FGC between Western society and non-Western society even revolves around the naming of the practice (Walley, 406).  There are several experts, such as Christine Walley, who take a neutral approach to the practice.  This is especially seen when Walley uses the term female genital operations.  This term is neutral with no connotation to support one viewpoint over another.  As Walley states most usages “are embedded in the ‘either/or’ perspectives characteristic of discussions of female genital operations, with circumcision signaling relativistic tolerance and mutilation implying moral outrage” (Walley, 408).

            For instance there are two terms utilized by most of Western society to classify this practice.  The term, FGM, female genital mutilation is the most popular between the two.  The second term usually used within Western culture is female genital torture.  Both terms are negative and give a harmful and torturous assumption of the practice before one can gather more information on the issue (Akintunde, 194).  As Walley states, the terms create outrage toward the practice by establishing from the beginning that there is something wrong and horrible with acting in such a way.  In English, torture and mutilation are similar to horror, blood and massacre.  These words are present in horror movies, where bodies are destroyed with various forms of weaponry (Akintunde, 194).  To apply these words to an act practiced by millions of people throughout the world for cultural and religious reasons, is taking the issue to a negative extremity.  It also gives the idea that parents and families are purposely attempting to cause harm to their female children (Walley, 407), which in essence, isn’t the case. 

            There is another extreme to this conflict. Those who are in support of the practice will use the term, female circumcision.  This romanticizes the practice and lulls people into a complacency on the issue. In effect, it achieves the same purpose of the term FGM, just to the opposite degree. Female circumcision gives one the idea that it is similar to male circumcision. However, it is not a simple procedure such as male circumcision.  The removal of the foreskin on males is not the same as removing the clitoris from a female (Walley, 407).  The main difference is that a male does not lose his sexual sensation when circumcised whereas a female does.

            There is a happy medium between these two extremes.  Walley chose to define this practice as female genital operations.  Throughout this thesis, the term used will be female genital cutting (FGC).  It is a neutral term, not wishing to insight anger or complacency.  FGC is a simple term that does admit to the practice of physically changing the female genitalia.  However it does not suggest that the procedure is too negative or too positive.

"The Biography of a Real Man II," 2012

An excerpt taken from chapter two of a book currently being written: "The Biography of a Real Man"
2012
By Rachel Mead

Chapter Two- November 14^th, 2001

I married a rotten woman. She cursed me and now I’m dying because of it. Dying and forgetting all at once.

The doctor said, “You have Alzheimer’s Mr. Bockman.”

He couldn’t look me in the eye, kept scribbling on some papers as I sat there with my mouth wide open.

“You’re a fool,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Grandpa, calm down,” said Avery.

“No.” I turned and looked at her. “He’s a fool.”

“Sir, please sit down. This is no way to act,” the doctor said.

That’s how he spoke to me; like some child, some disruptive, brainless child. I was poked and jabbed with needles by fat and stinky nurses and was forced to come back and forth to the hospital for weeks and this is how this man, this boy, treated me. Hmph.

I stared him down, waiting for an excuse to punch him square in the face. Avery’s hands were on my shoulder, trying to rub the anger out of me.

“This is hard,” she said. “I understand, but we have to hear him out.”

I sighed and flung my hand in the doctor’s direction.

He began what sounded like a general speech, words he used with all his patients who received the same diagnosis. It annoyed me. “It is necessary for you both to understand the disease and its repercussions to the human body. First, Alzheimer’s disease is essentially the degeneration of the cortical regions of the brain. This means--”

“Listen here Buddy,” I said, “I don’t care about any of this medical cock and bull. Just tell me how long I got left and what we can do.”

“Alright,” he said with a pause and shifted in his chair. “Every patient is different. Some last eight years, some longer than that and some fewer than that. After examining your tests, I have my own estimations, but I would like to ask you a few questions first.”

“Like what?” I said.

“When was the first time you began noticing symptoms of dementia?”

“How am I supposed to remember that Doc?”

“Please, Grandpa,” Avery said, turning to the moron. “I’m with him a lot, maybe I could explain the symptoms and changes I’ve seen?”

“Of course, it’s understandable for the patient not to recall specific instances.”

So there they went, the two of them, back and forth, gabbing on about what’d I’ve forgotten to do here and there, the person that slipped my mind at one point or another, the time I forgot my home address or how to get to the grocery store. At the time I thought it all came with old age. Everyone forgets one thing or another, but to my granddaughter and this doctor, the smallest bit of information that I couldn’t remember was a big deal.

I got angry. The doctor, sat there as if I didn’t exist, throwing out medical terms that no one could understand and never addressed another question to me. As Avery spoke more and more, his questions became more confusing and detached.

Then he finally said, “It is with my expert opinion that I suggest you begin researching nursing homes and other facilities which could care for your grandfather in ways that you cannot.”

Avery’s mouth fell open. “Excuse me?” she said.

I could see it in her hands first. They started to shake and she balled them into fists. Then a redness spread across her cheeks and forehead. It was nothing I hadn’t seen before. Avery’s protective rage was in fact common. She tried her hardest to never be separated from me.

The doctor, silent, moved his attention to a wheel on his chair and tapped it with his shoe. It was uncomfortable and Avery’s tension felt like heat blasting from her body.

“You think I won’t be able to take care of my own grandfather better than anyone else?” she said.

In a flash she got up and left the room. The doctor didn’t even look up at her. It was finally my chance to give it to this guy, to really stick it to him. But all I said was, “You’re a dunce,” and left the room to follow my granddaughter.  

I found her waiting by the car. She fumbled with one of those cell phones, jamming the buttons with her thumbs.

 “So,” she said when she saw me, “I guess we’ll have to find another doctor.”

“I think so.”

“It’s alright.” She hugged me. “We’ll get through this just like everything else.”

For a time after, I thought that it was just the idiot doctor’s mistake. I thought it was one giant misunderstanding.

But it wasn’t.

I saw three more doctors after him and all said the same thing. Alzheimer’s Disease.

I know it’s all her fault. The former Mrs. Margery Bockman, who now goes by the name Sunflower Wind, ran out on me ten years ago. After forty-three years of putting up with each other, she decided to run away to some nudist colony in New Mexico. She left ranting and cursing in a voodoo language, throwing her hands up in the air. It wasn’t until the divorce papers were mailed to me did I realize how much of an evil and crazy bat she really was. Attached to the papers was a note in her hand writing:

“Arnold,

I thought I would let you know how wonderfully happy I am. The scenery is magnificent and the people are absolutely grand. I’ve even met some other women who have dabbled in the art of magic…which leads me to the main purpose of my letter. Although I have recovered quickly from the long wasted years of entrapment, I do hope that the remaining years you have on Mother Nature’s blessed land is entirely miserable. I must also let you know, Arnold, that I have damned you. When I left, those few months ago, I chanted in a language you are not capable of understanding, however, it was a very dark and ancient hex. To put it in a way for your simple mind to understand, I made certain that you would die alone, die in a way that would make you aware of what it feels like to be trapped without help, without the ability to help yourself and be pushed into a most painful end.

Please give the rest of the family my love.

-Sunflower Wind” 

I couldn’t believe after all that she still wanted alimony. Sixty- five years old and I had to start paying alimony.

"The Biography of a Real Man," 2012

Excerpt from chapter one of a book currently being written: "The Biography of a Real Man"
2012
By Rachel Mead

Chapter One- November 14^th, 2003

            The house is too silent, too still. The floors no longer creak with movement from a walker or a wheelchair, the curtains shutter as the wind blows and outside the naked limbed trees stand straight and rigid. Dust lay on the floor like flurries of snow and I wonder if any pieces contain my grandfather’s skin.

            For a year I avoided this home as if my presence would destroy all that remains. My hurt, my suffering, my distress would tear down the walls, crack through the foundation and collapse the roof. I scared myself into thinking that I was in some way a force of ruin. But the obligatory duties of those left behind to care for the messes of the deceased fell on my shoulders. It was necessary that either my brother or I would have to revisit my grandfather’s home in order to clean it out, fix it up and sell it to another family. Even if Paul was here and not off backpacking through Europe, I would have refused his help or inclusion in the process. My fears could not hold back the sense that this I must do alone. 

            My entrance was anti-climactic. I prepared my psyche for three weeks, for that one moment when I would return to where my grandfather took his last breath. I envisioned dramatic change, an entirely different home. For some reason I thought that since my grandfather was gone, the evidence of his life would disappear as well. I even half expected to find strangers sitting on the sofa with books in hand, taking comfort in their new home.

But as I walked through the front door, dressed in all black, with my hair tied in a bun, I realized the only alterations that have taken place are in the forms of decay. Small cracks in the walls climb toward the ceiling and chips of paint have fallen into the thick layer of dust caked to the wooden and carpeted floors. Without being cared for, the house has declined into a shell of its former self.

I haven’t moved from the entry way. My body feels heavy, my feet tired. I fear the next step I take will alter this museum of recollections and memories. I fear the drastic change my presence will cause. I stand, debating my next move. I cannot retreat, can no longer hide from what now unveils before me; the silent emptiness. The evidence of his absence startles me. I try to convince myself that he isn’t dead, that instead he’s out, driving to the park, to the grocery store, to the doctor’s office. But, then, I remember the heavy breathing, the colorless skin, the moans, the skeletal, corpse like body, the shrunken black eyes.

To forget is impossible.

I take the first step. My shoe lifts some of the dust. My heart beats with rapid expectancy and my eyes spring from wall to wall, from floor to ceiling, memorizing all the changes a year has made.

I walk down the hallway. My sadness dissipates as I tread further inside. My heart calms and grows warm and a nostalgic smirk extends across my face. My feet begin to move at a faster pace. I am awed by the sensation. The corrosion and decay do not matter as the recollections of the past act out before my eyes. Although time beats upon the house’s structure with the rhythm of an inevitable end, the memories of what was linger and cling to the scarce physical remnants as if struggling against time’s continuation.      

"The Stars," 2011

A Short Story: "The Stars"
2011
By Rachel Mead

            It was only eleven on a Friday, but being as I had nowhere else to go on such a night, I found myself veering off the road and into an abandoned looking gas station. The lights were on inside the minimart and I could see a man standing at the cash register. At the sight of my car lights his head spun toward my direction.

            Sorry, [insert name here] I will not be buying Lotto tickets today.

            I was in no mood to buy, eat, or drink anything. I just wanted to sit; sit somewhere without the disturbance of unwanted, concerned eyes or the feeling as a hand consolingly rubbed the crick of my neck. I was done with people.  Even hearing another person’s breath in the same room caused my nerves to be on edge. I was too exhausted to pretend my life had continued in some sort of blissful perfection. I could no longer act as if what happened was similar to driving over a speed bump too fast and denting a piece of the car. It was no small incident that happened to be an unfortunate occurrence in one’s life.

            But I couldn’t go home yet. I wasn’t quite ready for the loneliness that was sure to strike me. The sad silence that always awaited my arrival. It crept out from the crevices in between the wood floors and forced me to relive over and over the pain of betrayal and trickery. It took all of my will not to start screaming like a lunatic in order to combat that un-combatable element.

            He said, “I do not love you anymore.”

            Now, what does a woman do with that statement? It’s not something I could laugh off or come to terms with. But, in my extreme shock, I was not capable of acting like a rabid buffoon, traipsing around the apartment, causing a disturbance that all the neighbors could hear. If I were prepared, that’s what I would’ve done. Then all would know of his deception. Instead, I stood in shock. Just stood there. What else could I do?

            For three weeks I’ve been asking myself that exact question. It wasn’t until sitting in that ratty gas station parking lot that I finally found my answer: there was absolutely nothing I could have done to change the circumstance fate presented me. Love takes two. No matter how hard I tried, one lover would never be enough to sustain a relationship.

            Love is the most powerful emotion in the entire universe. All it took was for me to lose it to be convinced of that fact. No one can control it. Love can overcome all obstacles, even deep seeded hate and nuclear wars. I always pictured love similar to the great oceans of the world.  Wide and deep; rich with majestic substance and mystery; ever growing and consuming; exciting, intoxicating and yet calm and peaceful. It’s as beautiful as a Picasso and yet as dangerous as a fire breathing dragon. It could kill you if you allowed the current to take hold.

            I almost let the current not only take hold, but sweep me away.  At the time, I wanted it, all of it. I wanted to be dragged out from all continents until I was far from family, friends, pets, jobs and worries. I was willing to sacrifice all of my life for some tiny piece of love that I thought I could hold on to forever.

            Where has this led me to? A run down gas station. I looked at my phone. 11:15. No missed calls. No new text messages. In a few minutes time the minimart turned to darkness. Even the cashier was going home for the night. And I thought these places were open 24/7. I was sure he’d be greeted by a family, children running up and hugging his tired legs as his wife sat on the couch and smiled at his return home.

            So there I was. Alone. Again. My hands shivered from the cold. I was sure that in an hour my feet would begin to freeze; rain boots provided no insulation, but I was much too naïve to think I’d ever need top of the line snow boots for Westchester, New York. Who would have thought it would snow this much here? My body shook from the lack of heat and as breath escaped my mouth, it swirled into a visible cloud.

            Regardless of the cold, I stepped out of my car, almost unconsciously so. My eyes watered as the bitter cold slammed into my face when I opened the car door. Salt and slush swished underneath my feet as I took a few steps forward. There wasn’t anything particular I was looking for. I’m sure if a passerby saw, they would think I wanted to rob the place. All I wanted was to walk around, stretch my legs. Maybe then I’d warm up a little.

            Everything appeared so dull and desolate. No activity or movement that was present during the day. It was creepy, as if I was the only one in town that survived an alien invasion.

            My eyes moved up toward the sky and immediately my breath escaped me. It was a deep black, speckled with tiny white sparkles, all shining in various luminosities. Some formed figures and objects. I traced my finger over the big and little dippers. I tried to find the image of Medusa.  She was my favorite legendary character. My astronomy professor ravished each and every time he spoke of the woman Medusa with her hair full of snakes. I eventually became seduced myself at the idea of a powerful and independent and yet terrible and cruel woman ever existing.

            Magical almost, how around every star existed several planets, orbiting in unison. Millions, billions, trillions. The all knowing universe smiled and winked at me. It seemed to want to cheer me up and let me know that I was not alone. As I stared, every now and then an airplane would soar by, blinking its red and blue lights. I knew that on those planes, there was a man or woman, sleeping peacefully, knowing that in the morning they’d be able to reunite with loved ones.

            At night, the sky was the active city. There were things occurring out there in the deep abyss that not even the greatest and most powerful microscope in the world could detect. I was sure that, just like me, there was someone else in the universe looking up at the sky. I was sure they felt the same wonderful and powerful sensation. A belongingness to the constellations, to the moons and suns, to the neighboring planets and the speedy meteors roaming as they pleased. Somewhere in all that movement, I fit in. I was only one among the bright stars that glowered at me, but I was still there.

            A tear fell down my cheek, the first in three weeks. I wiped the tear away with my hand and smiled in astonishment. An unexpected giggle flowed from between my lips. In my heart, I felt a joy and wholesome exuberance.  My body grew in warmth and it was as if my soul finally found the missing puzzle piece which it had been lacking. And there, under the stars, I was home at last.

"The Verdict," 2011

A Short Story: "The Verdict"
2011
By Rachel Mead

            I’m innocent.

            I twirl a long blonde strand of hair; my hair. Sitting in the wooded court room has got me in a complete mood. Everything is so dark and gloomy, like the witch trials or something. Not to mention, nothing matches. The dark wood walls don’t match the lighter floors which don’t match the even lighter pine tables. The government can’t even match right.

            My lawyer sits next to me listening to witness after witness, asking some questions and then scribbling illegible notes with some fancy expensive pen.

             I am not allowed to speak.

            I wish I could rip this ugly plaid skirt off. It’s long and itchy; reminds me of my grandma. Her disgustingly long farm skirts with plaid designs were always worn with some dirty white button down dress shirt. She always smelt of rum and weed. I never saw her with any…maybe it was some special old lady perfume. Badass Perfume for the Old Lady. I can see Grandma buying that.

             The only difference between me and Grandma right now is the brown blazer I have on over my white blouse. I look all too professional for a sixteen year old. I want my ripped jeans and tight tee shirt back. My hair, which I usually let loose and flow down my back, is now tied back into a braid. It’s too tight and there are random hairs sticking out, driving me nuts. I pull at the strands in anger.

            I’m innocent.

            The attorney sighs and quickly writes something on his jumbo sized legal pad and pushes it in my direction.

            Act a little more calm and collected and please pay attention.

          Have I not done enough for this guy already? I’m wearing this outfit like he wanted. My hair is how he said to do it. I’m not talking. I’ve told him every single thing that happened to me and haven’t I placed complete trust in him? I mean, this guy that I didn’t even ask for is now my only get out of jail free card.

            Plus, two days ago I put my hand on the Bible and swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth for this guy. Then he made me lie, full on blatant lying, to the entire court. I’m going to hell for this dude, for sure. The least he can do is give me a tiny break.

            I’m innocent.

            Supposedly it’s all a part of his plan. His entire master strategy is to get me off of all charges. But even I have little faith in that. His first real intense criminal case and he really doesn’t know the ins and outs of a defense attorney…even I can see that. I could do better than him. But I guess that’s what you get when the government tries to help you out.          

            My lawyer was only sure of one thing: deny every single accusation. Plead not guilty and preach from the witness stand. Spew what a good girl I am and maybe the jury will buy it. So, two days ago when I sat up there, with the judge on my right hand side, looking down at me, I pleaded for my life and innocence.

            Everyone lately feels the need to bring up things from my past, which clearly never happened to begin with. Like, that time at seven years old when I didn’t scorch the tail of my Uncle’s cat. Or those few times that Bobby Flay wouldn’t kiss me in middle school so I didn’t push him down the stairs several times. Oh and I most definitely had to explain how I did not stab my mother’s boyfriend to death with a large kitchen knife.

            That never happened.

            I’m innocent.

            You know what else never happened? Him crawling into my bed while I was sleeping.

            “Suck it Sweetheart. I won’t bite.”

            Except he did. He bit my shoulder when I tried to get away. He tore at my clothes as I cried and begged no no no. He scratched my thighs and made bruises on my back. He pushed and pushed me until I screamed out in pain.

            And when he was all done he passed out on top of me in bed.

            I’m innocent.

            So no, I did not push drunken Jeff’s sweaty body off of me at 12:36 am. I never ran to the bathroom and scrubbed every inch of my body with scorching hot water as the blood oozed and dripped from holes all over my body. After showering, I never went to the kitchen and threw open a drawer of silverware. I don’t ever recall taking a large butcher knife and sprinting into my bed room.

            I guess Jeff was still sleeping there, because then someone took a knife to his dick and chopped that sucker off. Then that person must have stabbed him repeatedly until he turned into a battered and bloody animal. I imagine rivers of blood appeared from his body as the knife made contact with his fat and lumpy surface. His eyes were large with the coming of death. A glint of surprise and treachery seeped through. His mouth wide open.

            But it wasn’t me.

            I’m innocent.

            That’s all my lawyer ever told me. “I don’t care what you did. You’re innocent all right? You just keep telling yourself that.”

            But when your mother takes the stand against your defense, it’s actually hard. She got up there, saying how I was jealous of her “relationship”. How I was in love with Jeff and wanted romance with him rather than just as a father figure. That she’s found me attacking him before as he denied me the sex I oh so wanted.

            The jurors keep looking at me as if I’m some freak to be pitied. A sad lonely girl who had too much anger and pain. So Jeff had an alcohol problem, does that mean he deserved to die? I guess not for them.

            Because the jury never heard how I was brutally raped by some fifty year old loser. To admit that would be admitting my guilt. Besides there is no longer proof anyway. I washed it all down the drain.

            I’m innocent.

            So Troubled-Killer-Psycho-Teenage-Girl I’ve become to these people. As they listen to my attorney give a closing statement, I doubt their opinions are changing much. Surely this wanna be hot shot public defender knows there’s no chance of getting me off.

            My mother sits behind the prosecution. Her face is stern and serious. Her blood red lipstick lips are pursed together. As an honest to God hard working stripper, those lips have been places I can’t even stand thinking about.

            It’s not like my mother would ever tell the court the truth. She is determined to make sure I’m blamed while she gets off the hook. Hard working Mom was sure to avoid any admittance that she used to charge Jeff and a number of other men for the warmth of my body and the comfort of a bed. Then, in some way, she would be found guilty and this could all fall on her shoulders.

            I’m innocent.

            So now she’s eyeing the prosecutor all appraising-like as he preaches his success of proving me guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. But he really has no freaking clue. For his role in this, I’m sure he’ll go to hell too.

            I wonder what they’ll give me? Death penalty is definitely off the table. That leaves a number of years in prison or life in prison swimming around as options. Life? Will I really be living in a cell until I die? Will I become one of those old tattooed lesbians that have long straggly grey hair and smoke cigarettes to pass the time?

            No, I will not be that.

            I’m innocent.

            The judge looks at me. A little disappointment flickers in her eyes. Am I supposed to cry now?

            “We will now adjourn until the jury has reached a verdict.”

            Immediately the jury exists through a back door.

            I stand to stretch my legs. I yawn, close my eyes and prepare for the ruling I’m sure will never play in my favor.

            I’m innocent.

"I Love(d) You", 2010

Excerpt of a Short Story: "I Loved(d) You."
2010
By Rachel Mead

She sat on her bed, peeling off the butterfly wallpaper stuck on the walls from years before. It had blue and purple butterflies, fluttering through rainbow flowers and bright green blades of grass. The border had lifted her childhood room into a euphoric state of fantasy and imagination. Her memories swiftly moved to the weekend her parents determinedly plastered her beloved wallpaper to the walls. Tears were shed, sweat was poured and surely a few drops of blood were spent. But, in the end, her desire for that wallpaper had come true.  Her parents finished their job with a pleased smile and a “thank you Mommy and Daddy,” from their daughter.

            “Maggie,” her mother said knocking softly.

            “Yes Mom?” Maggie said.

            “How are you?”

            Maggie turned away from the chipped wallpaper to face her mother. Her face was tear stained and mascara created large black streams down Maggie’s cheeks. Her hands shook slightly as Maggie removed them from the wall.

            “Oh Honey,” her mother said, walking across the room.

            Without a word, Maggie’s attempt to stay strong fell to shambles. She bawled at the top of her lungs as her body clung to her mother. Maggie felt like giving up right then and there. It was too painful, this hole in her chest. Her life wasn’t supposed turn out this way. His life wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. They had a plan. Why couldn’t that be followed?

            Her mother held Maggie, feeling her body shake with unimaginable grief and sadness. Her own heart broke for Maggie. She would do anything in her power to take the pain from her daughter’s shoulders. She pulled away from Maggie; her wrinkled face was lined with sincere sorrow.   

            “Come now,” she said. “You can’t sit here and drown in your own depression. Be strong for his family.”

            “I do need to go see Cathy,” Maggie said in between sniffles.

            “Yes, you do. Would you like me to come along?”

            “No, I need to see her alone first.”

            “Alright, I’ll leave you be then. If you need anything you’re father and I are right down stairs.”

            With that she left Maggie alone in the childhood room of fantasy and imagination.

            It took quite some time for Maggie to gain strength in her legs. She sat on the bed for awhile, looking around longingly. He was here before. He stood in front of the dresser mirror, admiring himself. He sat in the corner where dust now lingered. He laid on the bed, tickling Maggie as she begged in between giggles for him to please stop. He was here once and how she loved him.

            For the next thirty minutes Maggie struggled to change from her pink cotton robe to a simple white shirt and jeans. She refused to wear black.

            She slowly made her way to the staircase and walked, step by step, down until she completed the final step. Her parents sat on the couch across the room.

            “You going to Cathy’s?” her dad asked.

            “Yes,” Maggie responded.

            “I told you that Stan,” her mother whispered under her breath.

            “Can ya drive?” he continued, ignoring his wife.

            “I…don’t know,” Maggie said.

            Before either parent could reply to Maggie’s bewildering response, she walked out the front door with the pickup truck keys in her palm. Maggie could imagine her parents, staring at each other with shock and proceed to rush to the window as they watched their only daughter drive off, not knowing if she could actually handle it. But, no matter how afraid they were for her, they knew not to come outside after her; Maggie was absolutely sure of that.

            The red Ford F-250 pickup truck sat complacently in the gravel driveway. Maggie hopped in and looked at the passenger seat beside her. Empty. Just a month ago a body was there; the warmth of a human being wearing blue jeans and a black polo with a tan cowboy hat sat there once. He smelled of freshly cut grass and his forearms were a slight lobster red.

            Now emptiness. Cold, airy space mocked Maggie as she stared.

            With an effort, Maggie put the truck in gear and backed out of the driveway. Her eyes kept glancing toward the passenger seat.

            Without looking, she turned the wheel to exit the driveway. The back of the truck made a crunching noise. Startled, Maggie snapped her head outside the window.

            “Shit,” she said as she looked upon the mailbox crushed beneath one of the back tires.

            She put the truck into drive and moved forward off the mailbox. For an instant, she thought about going back inside and asking her dad to help fix it. Instead, she reversed, avoiding the broken mailbox and sped off. There were more important issues in life. A broken mailbox could wait its turn.

            After fifteen minutes of driving past small suburban homes with American flags hanging of the garages, Maggie turned right onto Magnolia Street. The suburban homes dissipated morphing into large plots of land with pastures, barns and farm houses. A cloudless blue sky with the round yellow sun could have made the day perfect for riding horses or driving down to the river to fish. Instead, Maggie turned left on to a long paved driveway while a blonde haired middle aged woman waved from a wrap-around porch. She quickly made her way to the driveway and walked to Maggie’s pickup truck.

            As Maggie opened the door, the woman lunged herself at Maggie, hugging her for dear life. Maggie responded the same way. She just didn’t want to let go.

            Once they separated the woman smiled. Her eyes were extremely blood shot.

            “I’m glad you came darling,” she said.

            “Cathy, I wish I came sooner,” Maggie said.

            “Nonsense, you’re flight came in only last night. I spoke to your mother earlier this morning,” Cathy said. “Come on in, I made sandwiches.”

            Maggie followed Cathy into the house. She could breathe a bit easier now.

            “His favorite?” she asked Cathy.

            “Of course! Peanut-butter and grape jelly with the crusts cut off,” Cathy laughed. “He was such a kid at heart.”  

            “He never stopped being one.”

            “No he didn’t, did he? Come on, have a seat at the table, I’ll bring the sandwiches.”

            Maggie sat down in the casual dining room, a small bright peach colored room filled with windows. The antique dining table and chairs were a dark oak brown. All along the walls were family pictures. There was barely one without Kyle. His large smile allowed his pearly white teeth to show through. His short black crew cut hair was a reminder he was in the military and served his country. The plastic leg, attached at Kyle’s right side was hidden in most pictures. After losing his leg, shorts were not much of an option for him. He didn’t like other people knowing of his “handicap.”

            As Maggie looked around the room, she could almost feel his presence, could almost smell his scent. She could’ve sworn maybe only a few days ago he ate breakfast here, probably fried eggs and toast. His favorite.

            She retraced his imagined footsteps over in her mind. He would’ve sat across from her, in his usual seat. Then, after fiddling with his fork a bit, he would have picked up his plate and walked through the hallway, making his way toward the kitchen. Instead of leaving the dishes for his mother he would have taken the initiative to do them himself. Would have; All now would haves. He would have or could have, but no longer will or do or be.

            “Here we are,” Cathy said, bringing in two plates with sandwiches neatly cut in triangles.

            She sat beside Maggie, leaving the seat across from her empty. His usual spot.

            “I’m sorry,” Maggie blurted out. A tear already started to roll down her cheek as she spoke.

            “Me too,” Cathy said with a sad smile upon her lips. No tears fell and she strayed from looking at Maggie directly. “I’m just thankful the last thing I told him was ‘I love you Kyle.’ God granted me a gift before taking my boy and I thank him for that.

            “I miss him already,” Maggie said.

            “It hasn’t hit me quite yet. I keep thinking he’s off in Afghanistan and will be back soon.”

            “I wish that were true.”

            “When do you have to go back?” Cathy asked.

            “Sooner than I would like. I have a week of leave, so about three days after the funeral I go back.”

            “You know, I was always worried about my Kyle. I knew he’d join the military just like his father and his Poppy. I always expected him to come back in one of those pine wooden coffins. He lost a leg over there, but in the end lost his life on American soil. I never thought that would happen…never.”

            As Cathy mulled her words over, Maggie felt the need to say something to break the silence. “It’s crazy,” she said in a self conscious whisper. She didn’t want to disturb Cathy’s thoughts, but the silence was too much to take.

            “That it is my girl, that it is. Ugh,” Cathy sighed and then took a large bite of her sandwich.

            “I warned him not to go out in that weather. It was pouring buckets; thunder and lightning, flood warnings. But Kyle said he needed a few things from the hardware store. Always was a stubborn mule,” said Cathy.

            It was unbearable to listen to. Maggie could see the entire situation playing out before her. But she couldn’t say anything. Her mouth was glued shut with peanut butter and she was hesitant to interrupt Cathy in any manner.

            “Only 20 minutes after he left this house I got the phone call. Car accident right up on Hightner’s Road, near the highway. A tractor trailer hit Kyle head on. Police told me the truck’s windshield wipers stopped working and he swerved into the opposite lane. Kyle’s truck had bad tires…but I’m not sure that would have mattered in the end anyway. I got there as fast as I could manage, but nothing much was left by the time I arrived.”

            “The ambulance had already taken him away?” Maggie piped up.

            “No.”

            “So you saw him, before they took him to the hospital? Was he still conscious?” This was Maggie’s last link to Kyle. Perhaps Cathy could tell her Kyle’s last words, his goodbye message to all he left on Earth.

            “Maggie…Honey, there was nothing left of him to see. Kyle died instantly.”

            Maggie placed her sandwich back on the plate, no longer able to stomach food. He was dead. But she never thought his body would be completely destroyed, shredded and unrecognizable. Maggie thought at the very least she would be able to see him once more. In his casket, dressed to impress and peacefully awaiting his own burial.

            “I can’t believe this,” she said.

            “I know, none of us can. Mike has been at the church praying all morning. Guess that’s all he can do. I think he’s asking for God to bring back his son.”

            “I loved your son very much Cathy,” Maggie said.

            Cathy took Maggie’s hand. Her soft fingers rubbed against Maggie’s consolingly. Maggie took a deep breath, again trying to build up courage.

            “Kyle asked me to marry him,” Maggie said.

            “What?” Cathy said, shocked.

            “Last month, just before I left. We were down by the river. He got down on one knee and proposed. He…he said he wanted to get on with it before we were separated again.”

            There was a long silence. Uncomfortable. Tense. Maggie didn’t know what to say.

            “He would’ve told me,” Cathy finally said.

            “But-”

            “No, he would’ve,” she repeated. “Did you say yes?”

            “What?” Maggie asked. The question caught her off guard. She had not expected Cathy to react in such a way.

            “Did you accept my son’s proposal Maggie?” 

- The end of the short story has not been given.-