WOMEN'S FICTION AUTHOR
“Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of her life,
every quality of her mind, is written large in her works.” Virginia Woolf
VIGNETTES
Summer Rain
I sit next to the window and watch as the puddles on my street grow wider while a gentle, cool breeze pushes past the curtains and brushes against my warm flesh.
The melody of the rain mixed with the harmony of my radio station delights me as I write and dream of the times when I was a young girl and danced alone in the summer rain.
For The Love of Mona
It was the time of day when the lights began to flicker inside of the Louvre but I would hurry. I needed to see her… one last time.
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I walked as quickly as possible through the corridor; past the Three Sisters Playing Chest, Bonheur, the Laughing Cavalier and the Four Apostles. None of them interested me tonight. It was only her I came to see.
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As I entered her gallery, an ominous feeling of dread washed over me as I faced the empty glass. How could this be! She, of all the masterpieces, gone?
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Then I spotted her; a girl, really, scurrying towards the exit. Heavy black muslin skirts clung to her thighs as her soft, chestnut-brown hair—bound for centuries—flowed freely behind her as she ran.
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She giggled, I smiled; signaling I would never tell. Then she returned my smile with a timeless, enigmatic one of her own—as only she could—and disappeared.
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Lost to the ages and my recollection, I suppose. Back home to her Leonardo.
Faded Dreams
Just outside my reality,
inside my imagination and past my touch,
live my faded dreams.
Some are simple
and others are grandiose,
these dreams of mine.
Will I become a teacher?
A decorator, an artist,
a writer?
Will I live in a big house?
Sail the sea
or drive a fast car?
Will I have a man who loves me,
children who care,
and a family who protects me… always?
And what of the child still left inside of me?
Have I honored and protected her dreams,
despite the ever-changing tides?
Let me close my eyes,
wrap my arms around her
and tell her it will be okay, please stay.
My Name
My mother loved me, but she didn’t like me and there is a huge difference. I know this because she would quite often say, “Mary, I would rather raise six more boys than another girl like you!” She'd say this when I was having a small “to do” about something not going my way or, quite possibly, an outright tantrum.
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Someone once told me, "With girls you pay as you go; every day there is some sort of drama. But with boys you pay all at once. For instance, boys tend to go with the flow of everyday living but then one night you get a call from the local police station because little Johnny has stolen a car." Too bad no one ever told my mother this. It may have spared us a whole lot of grief.
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Maybe if my mother had lived to know me as an adult she would have liked me but I will never know. She passed away when I was 29 years old but died when I was 18, of Alzheimer’s, when she no longer knew my name.