Tag: Fiction

The Test

Su Lin stood on the steps of the brick building, hands twisting the tail of her shirt into a tight knot. Today was the day. In a moment she would step through that door into the Naturalization Office. Mr. Munro would be waiting for her in his stuffy little office, a jar of pens and a bundle of handheld flags on one edge of his desk.

He would peer over the top of his reading glasses as she came through his office door, his hair sticking up in front where he had run his hand through it absently during his previous appointment. He would beckon her to a seat, tap a few keys on his laptop, and jerk a brand new test booklet from the top drawer of the filing cabinet near his shoulder. There were never pleasantries with Mr. Munro; no preliminaries, just business.

First, he would slap a sheet of written questions on the desk in front of her. He would look bored while she read them aloud, bored because after all the forms she had filled out for him he knew she could read anything he put in front of her. He would tap a few more keys and flip the page over, then shove one of the pens from the jar in her direction. She would carefully write every word he dictated to her in his squirrely voice, sure she was misspelling every other word but knowing it probably wouldn’t matter.

It was the next part of the test that knotted her shirt. Six questions that she prayed she would answer correctly, six questions that would determine where she spent the rest of her life. It was Mr. Munro’s favorite part, the only thing he seemed to get excited about.

Su Lin untwisted her shirt and took a deep breath. In half an hour, she told herself, she would walk back out that door with a brand new flag and a brand new nationality. And tomorrow, she would light a special Independence Day sparkler in celebration.

Book Review: On Mother’s Lap

My babies may be just a little too big for Mommy’s lap these days, but that doesn’t stop them from enjoying the magic of this book. On Mother’s Lap is about a little boy who wants all of his favorite things to share his favorite place.

Michael and Mother rock and rock on a cold Alaskan afternoon. One by one Michael adds his favorite toys and his snuggly fur blanket. Mother’s lap is cozy and perfect, but when baby sister wakes up will there be room for her too?

This is such a simple little story but one that sweetly captures the relationship between mother and child. The beautiful full page illustrations submerge the reader (and the listener) into Michael’s world and let us feel what Michael feels. As a side note, I love how the little details in the story place us inside a world that is very different from our own while demonstrating something that makes all people everywhere the same. In a world that seems determined to divide and hate, this type of subtle connection is so important for our children to experience and absorb.

The Cafe

The Cafe was still there, tucked away in its remote little corner. The structures surrounding it had grown even older and more drably brown with time, a stark contrast to its bright colors and neat facade. In the afternoon light it almost seemed a sun unto itself.

The evening rush had not begun, and the sidewalk tables and chairs stood against the wall as if starched and ironed into perfection. The walk itself gleamed, so freshly scrubbed that dust had not had time to mar its brilliance. I smiled. Old Lydia would probably frighten the dust away anyway.

The cafe door opened and Lydia herself emerged from its dark interior, white linen towel and scrub bucket in hand. “Wouldn’t do for the tables not to gleam as brightly as the sidewalk!” I called, a wide grin spreading across my face.

The old lady nearly dropped her scrub bucket, the strongest testimony of her surprise I could ever ask for. She would have died of mortification if it had fallen or splashed onto her precious walk. “Nico!” She carefully set her cleaning implements onto the nearest table and opened her arms wide to welcome me. “How long has it been?”

“Too long, Lydia,” I admitted as I returned her embrace. Beneath my arms her shoulders, though as broad as ever, felt frail somehow. “Too long to be away from home. But with Sofia gone…” I pulled away and looked down at her. “Where else could I go but here to remember her? This place was her soul.”

The old woman’s eyes filled, and she patted my arm. “Come inside, Nico, we’ll make a cup. Sofia’s blend. She will be here with us.”

Book Review: One Morning in Maine

Robert McCloskey has always been one of my favorite storytellers. I love his gift of capturing the all-important little moments of childhood. One Morning in Maine chronicles one such rite of passage.

Little Sal has a loose tooth, her first, and can think of nothing else. Losing a tooth means she’s a big girl and is growing up! While helping her daddy dig for clams, she wonders what else loses teeth. Maybe gulls or clams, or the seal she played with on the shore?

An accident threatens to spoil her excitement and stop her tooth wish from coming true. But a handy feather (lost just like her tooth) gives Sal a solution to her problem. Before long, with a few other hiccups along the way, Sal is enjoying a cool treat with her family and showing off her gap-toothed smile to the whole town.

It’s a timeless story with which every child can identify. The beautiful hand drawn illustrations only add to the charm, and as you can see, my own little one is entranced.

Book Review: Sarah, Plain and Tall

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I have loved this simple story since I was a child, and this week I was finally able to share it with my children. Sharing my childhood favorites tends to be somewhat risky with these superhero, cartoon, and video obsessed little people, but this story proved to be timeless. I read it aloud and reveled in every giggle and every delighted smile. I wanted to take a photo of our copy with them to share with you, but I’m fairly certain my four year old has secreted it somewhere she deems safe from sibling discovery.

You see, Anna and Caleb just want a mother who sings. And Sarah is the perfect fit, if only she doesn’t miss her beloved sea too much to stay. Like most children, they see what others do not, and as they watch Sarah try to adjust to prairie life they alternate between worrying and dancing with excitement. They fill Sarah’s days with little ordinary moments, like making waves in the cow pond or turning a haystack into a prairie dune.

No matter how many times I read this book, I wait with Anna and Caleb, almost holding my breath, to learn if their love is enough to hold Sarah’s heart and complete their family. I feel as if I am standing with them on the front porch, watching for a cloud of dust and a yellow bonnet. Sarah, Plain and Tall captures the essence of love and family, in simple yet poignant language that reaches young and old alike. I have a feeling it will continue to be a favorite in my family for many years to come.

The Healer’s Daughter

FB_IMG_1592766229369It was her favorite spot, a tiny gem hidden at the base of a cliff where almost no one went. No one except herself. Her mother had shown it to her when she was just a little girl, barely old enough to be trusted on the narrow path down. It was the secret of her mother’s success as a healer; the herbs and fungi that grew down here were especially potent.

Now her mother could no longer safely walk the path, and the task of harvesting was hers alone. It was the one time a week that she could be completely alone, far away from expectations and women’s chatter. The only sound was the soft fall of the water into the pool, and the light which filtered through the heavy canopy turned leaves luminescent and created glittering jewels in the spray.

That she would be a healer was unquestioned. Thanks to her mother she knew every remedy and could find the best and rarest. Her mother’s secret recipes had long been committed to memory. She had no quarrel with her destiny; it was, after all, a much freer life than that of the girls sent to the matchmaker by the time they were of age. And as village healer she was by law protected from a fate far worse, the fate of those who caught the eye of the nobility. She had seen them, their white painted faces devoid of expression above their opulent robes. No feeling or identity could remain in that life; such would destroy a girl more surely than the demands made of her.

No, fortune smiled upon her, and not even the basket heavy with living treasure against her shoulders could make her sorry. She must put other wishes from her mind and thank the ancestors for smiling upon her. But she could not prevent his face from appearing in her mind one more time.

The Lamplighter

FB_IMG_1591483602188He walked the streets in the dusk, the invisible bringer of light. Dawn and twilight, his two-headed staff tapping the cobblestones with each step. For forty years now he had walked the streets and alleyways, the stones of the old wall familiar friends now.

Fifteen steps from lamp to lamp, his feet knew on their own every start and stop. The tiny hiss as each wick flamed marked a beat in an old song. The almost imperceptible heat of each tiny flame staved the cold growing in his bones.

Ah, there was the ivy trellis across from Mistress Burnley’s shop. Fripperies didn’t sell until the well-born young girls left their late breakfasts with nothing to do but spend their fathers’ money. Nevertheless, Mistress Burnley’s second floor window held warmth at the snuffing hour each morning and comforted him each evening. Yes, there she was, as always, a fixture same as he.

Ten more steps to the old stairs, five – no six – to the top. Imagine forgetting that after all these years! Turn left to follow the wall, but only after lighting the corner lamp. Tonight music wafted from the open windows of Master Hollywell’s townhouse just across the way. Seemed Mistress Burnley’s wares would be displayed handsomely tonight. The Hollywell dances marked the height of the season, no doubt. The merry singing of the strings and the sound of feet tapping in rhythm called out to him, keeping time with his staff.

Fifteen more steps, another welcoming hiss. On he went, marking the time unheeded, forever caught between the light and the dark.

The Mirror Image

FB_IMG_1590687230114The Mirror Image raced the storm. She was the fastest sail on the bay, but this was the greatest race of her career. A race with the wind itself.

It was a beautiful storm. The sun rose gold ahead of her, lighting the water with its false promises of the day ahead. Behind her, dark clouds loomed over the golden rays, over the Mirror Image, over the glassy surface of the bay. Sheets of water waved below them, riling the water into angry ripples like a shattered looking glass.

A fork of light split the gloom, its electricity carried through the rain to set teeth on edge. It was too close for comfort, but the sails were full. She had lost the race. Buffeted by the edge of the storm, sails dampened by spray were furled and tied. Sea anchor cranked and rattled into the depths. Her mirror image in the water dimmed and scattered as the rain caught her. She would wait, secure against the onslaught, her masts barren in salute.

The Bench

FB_IMG_1590687238016It was perfectly placed, halfway down the walking trail along the river, looking out at the park across the water. The city’s most popular view. In the morning the sun rose behind it over the skyscrapers, leaving it in the shadows as people hurried to work, but in the evenings… oh, the evenings!

The river reflected the glow of the setting sun in the sky, bathing the whole area in rose light. If there were clouds, streams of light pierced them, creating natural spotlights at the edge of the water. People would sit, sometimes absently, sometimes with intention, and leave little bits of themselves along with the fading sunlight.

First, there were children. They never sat, not for long. Their weary watchers would collapse onto the bench, calling nervously for their charges to stay away from the water. Excited chatter and daring balancing acts on the wall would be the response, often accompanied by the indignant trumpeting of geese disturbed in their placid feeding.

Then there were the starched and tied business partners, almost too busy to notice the view. Glued to cell phones, foreheads furrowed in concentration or voices raised in agitation over the status of a deal, they relaxed no more than the keepers of the children. Perched on the edge of the seat, knees jogging nervously, briefcases opened and rustled with feverish haste, they never stayed long.

Then would come the old married couples, hand in hand. With creaking joints they would settle comfortably and gaze out over the water, steadfast and quiet as if the world stood still for them. Sometimes they would talk quietly, ordinary conversations about ordinary things. Mostly they just sat, wrinkled fingers entwined with comfortable familiarity with each other and the twilight.

Finally came the young lovers. Dancing carelessly as dark shadows in the day’s final light show, they laughed and talked and played like children. Only it wasn’t the geese they played with, but the future. Soft kisses in the corner of the bench, playful chases around its back accompanied by laughing protests, whispered promises and sweet caresses echoed across the river as the night descended upon it all.