This month I will be participating in the “Blogging from A-Z Challenge”
What is it?
I will be Blogging everyday beginning on April First with a topic themed on something with the letterA, then on April second another topic with the letter B as the theme, and so on until I finish on April thirtieth with the theme based on the letter Z. The theme of the day is the letter scheduled for that day.
My theme will be short fictional (well mostly fictional) stories about women. Each woman’s name will begin with the appropriate letter of the alphabet for that day.
All of the women will have the common life experience of a loss of some type.
I invite you, Dear reader, to comment on how you interpret the loss.
The entrance to the path is darkly shaded by leaves of giant old elms. The tops of the trees bow towards each other to form a dense archway.
The trail meanders along an abandoned 15 mile rail corridor.
It was Tilly’s favorite place to go for a peaceful bit of calm.
Tilly was a likable young woman with a ready smile. She jauntily navigated the path, her pony tail swaying back and forth. She cheerfully waved greetings to the other walkers, joggers and bikers.
The bridge, which crosses over Lohiel Creek, was near mile marker 2. It was one of her favorite spots. It was there that she would stop to chat with Mr. Jack. He was a dear old man who wore a wide brimmed straw hat. He regularly rested on the park bench next to the bridge. He leaned on his cane with both hands under his chin and was a passerby watcher.
She remembered the first time she met Mr. Jack. She had stopped at the bridge hoping to capture some photos of the fluttering, hopping, scampering wildlife living around and under the bridge. He nodded, touching the brim of his hat, then gave her a little wink.
She giggled the time Mr. Jack presented Tilly a bouquet of wild flowers.
Without consulting each other, it just seemed to happen naturally, she would bring the coffee and he the chocolate donuts. One for each of them.
She confided to him that she wanted to go back to school, art school. She showed him her photographs. He encouraged her and told her she had real talent.
He talked about his wife, Uma. He told Tilley that he and Uma sat on this very bench every afternoon. It was their bench. He said they had been child hood sweethearts, you know. They were together for 53 years. He explained that she passed away a year ago. His children were busy with their lives. He certainly understood. He was young once too, he told her with a wry smile.
The day Tilly quit her job was her first day of art school. She couldn’t wait to tell Mr. Jack.
She briskly jogged the path, the coffee sloshing out of their cups.
He was there, as usual, waiting for her.
He was proud of her, he said. He knew she could do it.
Jack looked at Tilly intently studying her face.
She was puzzled. She wanted to know if everything was okay.
That’s when he told her about the illness.
She tried but couldn’t hide the tears. He told her it was okay to cry and she rested her head on his shoulder.
They had time, he promised.
And he kept his word.
He came to her first showing. She brought the coffee and he the chocolate donuts.