TheBanyanTree: A WIP. or not.

[Monique Colver]

Yes, it's a work in progress. I don't know how long it will be yet, but
there's definitely some things I want to do with it.


*We appreciate your referrals!*

Monique Colver
Colver Business Solutions
www.colverbusinesssolutions.com
monique.colver at gmail.com
(425) 772-6218


On Mon, Apr 21, 2014 at 5:46 AM, Kitty Park <mzzkitty at gmail.com> wrote:

> Definitely WIP!
>
> Is it in writing the first chapter that you decide if there will be more?
> Or in writing it do you realize "that's all there is"?
>
> Everything I write is spilled out in a single short piece, and generally
> there is nothing more I need to say.  (That's why keep with my blog.) To
> have a multi-chapter *story* to tell would require my mind to organize and
> that's not a focus I have ever excelled at.  An hour or two (at most) is
> all I can manage. Weeks, months, years just won't happen.
>
> So kudos to all of you who do publish -- hard- and paperback as well as
> ebooks. I bow to your dedication to each of your projects.
>
>
> Kitty
>  <mzzkitty at gmail.com>kcp-parkplace.blogspot.com
> <http://parkplaceohio.com>
>
>
>
> On Sun, Apr 20, 2014 at 7:13 PM, Monique Colver <monique.colver at gmail.com
> >wrote:
>
> > Our children were playing together on the sand, yours already turning
> pink
> > in the sun, their coloring from their mother, mine laughing as they
> scooped
> > sand into buckets. It was all I’d ever wanted, our families together,
> after
> > all those years apart, but you wouldn’t look at me, you wouldn’t talk to
> > me, except for the occasional grunt, the occasional nod, still so careful
> > not to say the wrong thing, as if by saying what you really thought you
> > might open something dark and old, and then then where would we be?
> >
> > “Your children, they’re beautiful,” I said, because they were, and
> because
> > I wanted to say something, anything, to break the silence.
> >
> > You nodded, agreeing with me, as of course you would.
> >
> > You sat on the flimsy patio chair as if on edge, unable to relax even
> when
> > relaxation was the point, or maybe that was why. You always fought
> against
> > doing things because you were supposed to, or feeling things you thought
> > you should feel. Instead, you grappled with life as if it were the enemy,
> > as if what came naturally must be wrong, as if wrestling with each minute
> > decision had to be the right thing to do, if only because it were harder
> > that way.
> >
> > Not me. I went with the flow, did things as they presented themselves,
> and
> > never gave them another thought. It’s how I ended up with children,
> because
> > while it hadn’t been my intent, they had shown up anyway, because I
> hadn’t
> > thought ahead, nor considered what would happen next.
> >
> > Melinda came out on the porch then, slight but sturdy, all bubbles and
> > light. I often wondered how she came to be your wife, she was so contrary
> > to you, but maybe that was why. Maybe you needed that contrast to keep
> the
> > darkness bearable.
> >
> > “Caleb! Miranda!” She called to your children, and they both looked up,
> > sunny surprise on their faces, as if they’d forgotten we were there at
> all.
> > “Come get more sunscreen!” Melinda held a can of spray in one hand, and
> > your children came running to us, and then my children followed, and it
> > became a race, and then four children exploded onto the porch in a spray
> of
> > sand.
> >
> > Some of the sand got in my eye, and I wiped at it, but that only made it
> > worse, and my eye started to water, and when you looked at me, just a
> > glance, really, all you could spare for me, you thought I was crying.
> >
> > “What’s wrong now?” you asked, but there wasn’t anything wrong, nothing
> new
> > anyway.
> >
> > “I’m fine,” I said, and while Melinda sprayed the kids with sunblock you
> > looked as me as if I were lying, and for a minute I thought maybe I was.
> >
> > You always had that effect on me, of making me think I were wrong, that I
> > didn’t even know my own truth, and I wasn’t sure how much of that was
> true.
> >
> > The kids went running back to the sand, back to their buckets and
> shovels.
> >
> > “You two all right out here?” Melinda asked, pausing for just a second to
> > see us nod, you first, then me, following your lead, before she headed
> back
> > inside, where she was doing something useful. Melinda survived life by
> > being useful, by getting things done, by being the person everyone else
> > counted on.
> >
> > And I, I was the one no one counted on.
> >
> > “What do you want?” you asked then, certain I had some ulterior motive.
> >
> > “I don’t want anything,” I said, “I just wanted us all to be here
> > together.”
> >
> > You shook your head then, not believing me, thinking I was up to
> something.
> >
> > Caleb ran out into the surf then, his arms wide out, and as he plowed out
> > into the cold water he shrieked with the cold of it.
> >
> > You went after him then, the good father, to make sure he didn’t go out
> any
> > farther, to keep him and Miranda and even my children safe, your long
> > strides making shadows on the beach longer than any of us, attenuated and
> > thin, and I watched your shadow walk away from me, and I wondered where
> it
> > had all gone wrong.
> >
>