1 am andrew roberts

my supervisor to let her know I was in and assumed my place at the end of register three.

I worked with Carol every single shift. She refused to reveal her birth year, but I knew she was nearly 70. We had worked together for two years, and we were good friends. She loved Esther. She talked as if there was no tomorrow, and I listened as if she would never stop talking. We discussed little things, like the weather, the president, good books, old movies, jazz. We talked.to our customers, usually by including them in the conversations we'd started when there was no one in line. "Frankie!" Carol's shrill voice echoed through the empty aisles of the tiny store. "So much to tell ya!" And the day began.

As I listened to Carol's account of her dog's near brush with death and the newspaper delivery boy that was two hours late, I hoped it wasn't wrong to feel relieved to think about things other than Esther. My mind wandered in and out of our conversation, mingling with thoughts of David, of Esther, of the dripping faucet that she'd asked me to have fixed.

I thought of things that had been, and things that could have, should have been. I tried making lists of both things in my mind, dividing my thoughts and memories into columns and charts. There was a lot going on up there. Vacations, late nights spent together on our porch, afternoons gardening and walking. I remembered the sweetest times, the simplest times, and the times I felt most alive. I remembered the way her eyes looked, right after she woke up. They would fight the process with every ounce of strength they had, until finally, after a few cycles of fluttering and blinking, they would succumb to Esther's commands. They would find mine, and search them peacefully. And the corners of her mouth would curve upward ever so slightly as they would whisper, "Good morning, darling".

My mind was jolted into the present as my bare calves became aware of a warm, moist matter running down them. "Oh, Frank," Carol gasped, as the remains of a chunky vegetable marinara sauce slid down onto my white shoes. I gazed down at the shattered glass and spattered mess on the cream tile floor, at the young boy whose tiny fists were crammed into his ears as he huddled next to his mother's knees. "You've never dropped something," she said. "Are you alright today?" I looked up

and gazed at her. She had kind eyes that now took their turn searching mine, which lied as they nodded along with the rest of my head. "I'm fine," I said. "Just a little tired." Esther was mine, and no one else's. I lost her, Carol didn't.

One o'clock rolled around, and I collected my hat from the back room. As I walked out towards the sliding door exit, I saw the Ghirardelli's. Carmel filled. It's funny how

the smallest, most insignificant thing can trigger something I hoped was emotion. I walked past the display. "No chocolate for Esther today?" Carol called after me, forehead scrunched into a sea of wrinkles. "Not today," I said softly. Tipping my cap

over my forehead, I gave her a slight wave goodbye as I walked out the door. For some reason, I felt a lump rising in my throat. No more chocolate purchases.

As I rode home, I naturally thought about David. Nothing new, nothing strange. I usually just wondered where he was, what he was doing, things like that. From what I could tell, he had become quite successful. He called himself a business man, but I never really figured out what it was that he did. Samantha was a grade school teacher.

I was a little warm by the time I arrived home. The sun at one o'clock was at it's peak temperature, somewhere in the upper seventies. Perfect as always. I smiled to myself as I heard the familiar whine of my

brakes, the steady clicking of the peddles as I dismounted. Leaning it up against the house, I made my way along the stone pathway that led to our porch, carefully avoiding the neatly trimmed flowers and limbs of shrubs that lined the walk.

Clarke was waiting for me at the door as I opened it, and he rushed out towards the garden as soon as I walked in. I began to heat up my lunch, tomato soup, and poured his lunch into a dish. I clicked on Sinatra to keep me company.

As I sat down with my soup, I knew I had to call David. I was afraid. Afraid he

wouldn't bother to answer. Afraid he would be angry. Or maybe, I was afraid that he wouldn't be sad, or angry. That he wouldn't have any regrets.

Even though we never talked, I still had his number memorized. I guess it's one of

those things you never forget.

Dialing went fine, but as soon as I heard the ringing begin, my palms started to sweat. I stirred my soup with my right hand, cradled the phone with my left. And then I hung up. The phone slammed onto the receiver, and I saw Clarke in the corner of the room. He sat watching me. I sipped my soup.

I gently placed my bowl in the sink when I was finished and walked into our bedroom. I didn't want to touch anything, didn't want to move anything. I'm not really sure why; maybe I thought she would come back, if I could wake up.

The rest of the afternoon seems blurred to me. I sat in her closet for quite some time, flipping through each individual gar-

ment as if I was seeing it for the first time. The fact that her things were still there, and she wasn't, was an eerie one. After a while, though, I thought it was quite nice.

I explored the photo albums she had made in our earlier years of marriage. I looked at our wedding album. We were a handsome couple and we lived life richly. "Hello?" The ringing had stopped, and

I could hear her crystal voice on the line. "Hello?"

"Samantha, it's Frank. David's father." Did she know it was me? "Frank, my goodness! How are you? This is a rather unexpected surprise. It's...late." My clock read seven o'clock. Hers must have read twelve. I'd hoped they'd be sleeping.

But they weren't. "But how are you?" Her voice was soothing, reassuring, and a little lower than when she had first answered. That meant David was there, maybe even in the same room as she, possibly sitting in the leather recliner he told me he had bought after his first big raise, probably listening. "Oh I'm just fine Samantha. And you?"

"I'm well, thank you." She paused. "David is doing just fine, too. How is Esther?" "Esther." It sounded strange to say her name. And to hear her name. I wasn't really sure what the proper thing to say next was. I probably couldn't avoid it much longer. And they needed to know. "Actually, Samantha, that's why I called. I need to talk to David." There was silence on the other end. "Frank, is everything okay?" I could hear the fear in her voice. At least one of us could display it.

"Yes. I just think I need to talk to David." I paused. "I know he's probably busy but

it's important." "Yes, yes, I understand." She was probably looking at him right now. Were her eyes stern? Or sad? Did she know? I heard a faint rustling, and then a new voice. "Hi, Dad," David cleared his throat a few

times. "Well. How are you?" "David. It's good to hear your voice." I sighed, a sigh of relief. "I am just fine,

son. There is something you need to know." The truth seemed to hang on the line somewhere in between California and Maine. Somewhere in the back of my throat. "David. Your mother died yesterday. In the

morning. I'm sorry I didn't call you sooner. I just wasn't sure if..." "Dad." He interrupted me. Which is good,

because I wasn't really sure what I was saying. And Clarke was scratching at the door. I was in the kitchen. I walked over and let him out. It was still silent on the other end of the phone. I clicked on the music as I sat back down. I waited. "Listen, Dad. I mean ...are you alright? What happened?" "Well, she died. I woke up, and she had

left us. I called the hospital, and they sent a doctor and an ambulance. And they took her away." I didn't like hearing myself say those words. I sounded angry, the kind of angry you associate with a slow talking Unabomber, or with someone who has some issues. Still, silence on the other end. "David, I want you to think about coming home. Just for a day or two. I would like to see you, and Samantha." Clarke scratched at the door, and I let him in. His feet clicked on the tile as he followed me over to where his dish was. I poured some squares of food into his bowl, and he watched each piece clink against the glass. He sat down, and I watched him begin to pick through the colorful selection in front of him. He was a delicate eater. "I don't really know what to say, Dad. I mean, Mom's gone." He choked over the word 'gone'. I knew when I called that I wasn't expecting any sort of movie-script break down, an emotional, apologetic monologue in which we both confessed our faults and asked for forgiveness. But I felt a sense of peace as I heard emotion in his voice. Hearing the word 'dad' was so foreign, an annual treat. "Dad. I'm sorry. I miss her. I miss both of you."

"Yes, David. She missed you too. And I miss you." I rose slowly from the table as I was speaking and walked into the study.

The traditional 'father-son playing baseball in the yard' picture was on my desk, in between stacks of hardcover books. My words felt numb. "Come home, if you can. I just wanted you to be the first to know." "Okay. Okay." Silence. "Okay, I'll talk

to the guys at work, and Samantha, she'll want to come, and..." "That's just fine, son. You do what you need to." I smiled, in spite of myself, selfishly perhaps. "Okay, Dad. It's going to be okay. I'm

sorry, I am." He was still stumbling over almost every word. "I know. Just call tomorrow. I'll be home all day." "Bye, Dad." He hung up, and so did I.

Nothing fancy.

The night was black, and I stepped outside to watch the moon's reflection slide across the water. Ralph Waldo Emerson once said that we as a people are too busy with the crowded hour to fear to live or die, but I never really knew what he meant. While I watched the stars dance that night, I think understood.

Goodnight fear. My oldest friend.

The Beauty in a Belly

carrie gellin

Inspired by Picasso's L'Atelier (The Studio)

Draped in teal robes the belly emerges like a whale's head in the ocean. She is a sea otter with fins that can grasp a budding flower.

How that belly poses! Bows bearing a school of love organs.

A fin in despair

blue hair caressing the floor of his cracked colors.

Grapefruit breasts a smell less face the belly struts to the left

and he will wait to embrace the sun crashing on the surface of his palette.

Perhaps a mermaid perhaps tonight perhaps he will

glaze the blossoming flower. She will grow back

her fingers like the beast he will give her a nose he will give her ears to hear the bees.

Luna

jessica ferri

The chill clings to me, especially today

And I yearn for the sea

For warm sugar sand underneath my feet. I won't even mind the scurrying crabs Across my feet, I promise I won't scream.

Could you just give me the moon? Something full and hung in its rightful place?

Against the midnight blue sky The importance its wholeness.

Here there is too much

A factory of noise and polluted space.

Don't let it seep into this; My blank page, white; full.

. / m

jane m. rheinhardt

If though while you are gone A force of harmony produces a song

I will be where I am

Yesterday Tomorrow and

Again Today

An Impulse kept in time Instrumentally Inclined To Produce a reason and a rhyme

To subconsciously record A

Melody to pass time away So..

so

Dauntingly Ill discuss the facts Those that stretch across the acts Maybe

If though while you are gone

You. .