Why I Like Being a Writer (in response to the raised eyebrows of a few friends)

[The writer could have included an introductory paragraph, but the informative title makes an introduction unnecessary. Alternate approach: The parenthetical remark could have formed the introduction.]

1. I set my own hours.

If I feel like sleeping in, no problem. When Mom calls, I can take as much time as I need to troubleshoot her latest crisis.

2. I’m my own boss.

Nobody orders me around or criticizes my work performance. If I want ten coffee breaks a day, I take them. Best of all, I don’t have to apply makeup, and I can work in my PJs.

3. Writing benefits the brain.

Studies confirm it. Besides, I enjoy the work, and satisfaction benefits the whole body.

[This listicle could be improved with a witty summary.]

Fleurs-de-Vie

By Kathy Steinemann

*

White stargazer lilies around Daddy’s casket.

I wept when I peeked at his frozen features and pale eyelids. I wondered if he knew how much I loved him, how desolate I felt. I grasped his fingers, hoping he’d hug me like he always did when I needed comfort.

But Daddy wouldn’t move.

I clenched my hands and didn’t wash them for days after the funeral, no matter how much Mommy coaxed.

Pink carnations grasped in Billy’s fist.

He held them out to me during a field trip in sixth grade. I smiled and stroked their petals, ignoring the flecks of dirt clinging to the roots. I didn’t ask him where he got them. Flowers were happy. I was happy. I liked Billy and he liked me back.

Blue orchids in the corsage Billy pinned on my pink grad dress.

We danced and whirled and laughed and kissed. The stickpin came loose, and the corsage fell to the floor. Toes and heels trampled and tore at it. I cried, but Billy held me close to brush the tears from my cheeks.

Red roses in my bridal bouquet.

Friends and relatives wished us well. Billy and I danced and whirled and laughed and kissed. Then we slipped away from the reception as soon as we could, eager to begin the next chapter of our life.

Passion flowers of white and mauve next to champagne on the nightstand.

Billy popped the cork. We reminisced about the wedding reception. Giggled. Shivered in the embrace of nervous anticipation. The champagne turned flat, and the ice melted while we explored and caressed. I learned why Eve lusted after Adam, why Cinderella wanted the prince, why Cleopatra yearned for Mark Antony.

Baby’s breath beside my bed in the maternity ward.

A tiny human lay in my arms. Delicate fingers clutched mine the way I had clutched Daddy’s. I wept. For Daddy. For my uncertainty. Could I ever be the mother my little girl needed?

Yellow dandelions in Alyssa’s fist after her first day of preschool.

“Here,” she said, “I picked them special just for you.” I tousled her curls and hefted her onto my hip. She protested, “I’m too big, Mommy.” She wiggled down and dragged a chair to the sink while I arranged her bestest fwowers in a crystal bud vase. She giggled and swiped at the dirt on her cheeks as she stared at the rainbow sparkles sprinkled by the sun against the wall.

Fleurs-de-lis of gold embossed on the diary Alyssa bought me for Mother’s Day.

I traced the intricate patterns with my fingertips and promised to write in it every day. She smiled. “I love you, Mom. I’ll love you ’til all the stars are gone from the sky.”

Pink petunias next to my hospital bed.

“Where’s Billy? Where’s Alyssa?” The nurse wouldn’t answer, averting her gaze and bustling about as though she hadn’t heard. But when my doctor entered the room, I read the sorrow in his eyes.

I wailed into the emptiness while I tugged the blanket to my chin. Why couldn’t it have been me who died in the crash? The vase of petunias toppled to the floor and shattered.

Delphiniums of blue in two funeral wreaths.

The flowers blurred before my eyes as I listened to the minister and gazed at the photos on the caskets. I collapsed to my knees. My world lay in those satin-lined prisons. Father and daughter now slept together in death.

But I couldn’t sleep.

White stargazer lilies around my head.

The bubbles in the bathtub were almost gone. I reached for the sleeping pills, and my tears mingled with the warm water.

I removed the lid, poured the pills into my hand, and took a deep breath.

The faces of my husband and daughter ghosted the mist on the mirror.

Yellow dandelions and pink carnations in my hand.

The decades have left me with a bowed body and a wrinkled face. Every spring I lay my favorite flowers in the green grass blanketing my loved ones, and I promise to love them ’til all the stars are gone from the sky.

I remember, I remember

By Thomas Hood

*

I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,—
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from heav’n
Than when I was a boy.