Learning Ally

A few weeks ago I was sent an email informing me that Halfway to Each Other was chosen as one of the books that would be added to the Learning Ally library during Phoenix’s  annual Record-a-Thon.  I was honored and excited at the opportunity.

I have been aware of Learning Ally (formerly Recording for the Blind and Dyslexic) for many years through my teaching profession.  It is a godsend for students and their families.  This national non-profit, offers an online catalog of the best audiobook and audio learning opportunities on the internet.  I have referred them to families of struggling students and have watched these children take charge of their learning and glow with the pride of achievement.

Here’s a blurb about them from their webpage:

“Founded in 1948 as Recording for the Blind, Learning Ally serves more than 300,000 K-12, college and graduate students, veterans and lifelong learners – all of whom cannot read standard print due to blindness, visual impairment, dyslexia, or other learning disabilities. Learning Ally’s collection of more than 70,000 digitally recorded textbooks and literature titles – downloadable and accessible on mainstream as well as specialized assistive technology devices – is the largest of its kind in the world. More than 6,000 volunteers across the U.S. help to record and process the educational materials, which students rely on to achieve academic and professional success.”

Though headquartered in Princeton, NJ, they have recording studios and offices all over the country.  Pam Bork runs the studio here in Phoenix with a staff of generous volunteers.  Dorothy Burns and I had a lot of fun recording Halfway to Each Other together, or at the very least I had fun and she was tearing her hair out with all of our re-do’s whenever I would flub a word or phrase.

Dorothy and I after our recording session.

If your family has a need for this organization, don’t hesitate!  If you can’t find the title of the book or textbook you need, they will record it for you.

If you would like to voluteer to read/record books,  all it takes is a short demo in the recording booth and you’ll be on your way to helping people of all ages enjoy reading and experience the wealth that printed material provides.

Click here to browse the titles in their catalog!

The Commonwealth Club

Please enjoy this recent presentation at The Commonwealth Club of California.  Thank you to Laura Fraser for moderating~

Susan Pohlman at the Commonwealth Club of California

Be Inspired!

I was honored to be interviewed by the inspiring Erica Jefferson of  Be Inspired!   It is my pleasure to share this podcast.

Thank you, Erica~

 

Interview with Erica Jefferson

The Whistle

A Father’s Day Tribute!  Love you, Dad~

The Whistle

My dad is one of those people who can place two fingers into his mouth and blast out a whistle that can stop a train.  It was our family’s signature “get your fannies home this minute” signal that would reverberate through the neighborhood at dinnertime.  It was also the signal he used to wake us up on Saturday mornings, hours before our teenage bodies would have naturally awakened.

“Pancakes are on the table!”

I hated those words.  I hated pancakes.  I hated trudging down the stairs in line behind my equally grumpy brothers still smelling of sleep and unwashed hair.

“Hurry up, they’re getting cold,” Mr. Handsome in his White Apron would bellow though we stood within whispering distance, pointing his silver spatula like a policeman’s baton.  “I’ve been up since 6:00 getting this ready for you all.  The least you can do is look alive. Show some respect.”

The six of us would take our places at the table, exhaling loudly and scraping the legs of the chair against the floor extra hard.

“Pass the orange juice.”

“Could you leave some syrup for the rest of us?”

“Why do you use so much butter?

“These are cold”

“Do you have to chew that loud?”

“Kevin, wake up and get your head off the table before Dad sees you.”

I would methodically cut my pancakes into exact squares and move them around.  When Todd wasn’t looking I would take a handful and throw them onto his plate. We had come to this arrangement some time ago as he would always pay me back in vegetables at dinner.

“Up and at ‘em. That’s what I always say.  Early bird gets the worm,” Dad would announce as he barged through the white swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room balancing a platter of steaming pancakes that would have made Aunt Jemima dance the jig.

“Elbows off the table.  Where should that napkin be?  Come on, backs straight, chins up.  A little class goes a long way.”  He would make one lap around the room emptying his platter onto our plates whether we wanted them or not, none of us saying a word.

“Beautiful day, lots to do.  You’ll find your lists on the fridge as usual.  No one leaves the house till your chores are done.  Work before pleasure.  Key to success.”

And so it went, week after week, as sure as the passing of the seasons. We grew up in a home built on a foundation of shoulds.  Though it was a constant source of irritation and emotional kindling that ignited many a fire between Father and Child, it also ingrained in us a deep sense of duty and order around which we could build successful lives.

My father, an electrical engineer, found comfort in rules and formulas.  A product of his generation he played the role of the “DAD” to the hilt.  Emotions were for sissies.

And he was very good at lectures.  He had a stockpile of them ready to go the instant they were needed.  He had lectures about jumping on the beds, and not pulling on the banister when we raced up and down the steps, not sitting on the edge of chairs and couches so we wouldn’t break down the cushions. He had a very emotional lecture that had something to do with not putting away his tools after we used them, and also a fiery one we only got to hear on special occasions like the one that lit up the back yard the day David decided to sneak the car out for a joyride before he got his license. And by god, if our mother took the time to make that dinner we were going to enjoy it.

I still don’t know what was going to happen if he “had to turn around one more time while driving the eight of us seven hours to Maine on vacation, or “if he had to come up there” when we giggled and played past our bedtime.

But what he was the best at, was the whistle.  It was a loud, commanding three-note signal that cut though the neighborhood and sent six pairs of legs racing home faster that than the bells of the ice cream truck. He understood that a family who eats together shares a life of meaning.

Yesterday, we sat in the bleachers at my son’s volleyball game as they battled the opponent point by point.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw my dad put his two fingers to his lips and take a deep breath.

“Dad, don’t.  You’ll embarrass him,” I laughed as I tugged gently on his arm.

“You think so?” He asked eyes softening with resignation.

“Yes. He doesn’t know about the whistle.”

“Probably for the better. I have a hard time with it now that I have these new teeth.”

“You’re still belting out your whistle?  In Sun Lakes?” I asked as he looked away thinking that I could not see his eyes cloud with memory.

“You know,” he said, “once in awhile, when the quiet overwhelms me, I pretend that it’s still magic, and you will all run home for dinner.”

A Letter to My Son Upon Graduation

A letter to my son upon his high school graduation. So proud of him!

Dear Matthew,

Love is not easy to put into words, especially a mother’s love, the depth of which is unfathomable.

When I look at you now, tall and strong, I don’t just see an eighteen-year-old man, I see you in all of your life’s stages at once.  I see you as a newborn in my arms in the shadows of midnight, a blur of blonde hair racing down the stairs in Barney pajamas on Christmas morning, the navy shorts and pressed white shirt of a first grader not sure why he has to go to school, the tender realization in your eight-year-old blue eyes that stealing the puck was okay in roller hockey. (Who knew that sharing with others didn’t apply in sports?)

I remember the white pooka beads and Hawaiian shirts that heralded the onset of middle school, basketball and volleyball uniforms, a well-worn back pack and a handful of snacks on trains through Europe,  the royal blue gown of an 8th grade graduate, the proud captain of your high school volleyball team, and now, a man.

As much as a mother raises her son, so does a son raise his mother.  You have taught me many things as I have watched you grow.  From you I have learned the power of a tender heart as I have witnessed your quiet kindness to others all of your life. (Though there was that rough patch when you were three and almost asked to leave Debbie’s Daycare when you knocked over the boy who kept stealing your matchbox cars )  Your teachers throughout grade school always remarked about your concern for the feelings of other children. You attract friends wherever you go, and you are loyal to them.

You taught me how to find joy in the moment. You have the gift of turning the mundane into amusement.  You see subtext and comic irony in the world around you. Your wry humor is a constant source of delight that lightens our days.  It reminds us to relax and not take everything so seriously. I will miss this tremendously when you go to college. Who will alert me to the new, must see, You tube videos?

And you taught me about courage.  Our family life has been marked by transition, and you have endured many relocations from a young age.  In your 18 years you have had seven homes and attended five schools.  Change has been constant.  Anyone who has moved knows that it is never without trial.   You have navigated these changes with elegance, courage, acceptance, and again humor, when all else failed.  It has been remarkable to watch.  You are stronger than you know.

You have a natural tenacity and ability to accept life as it unfolds.  This is a skill that will serve you well in the years to come, because life is about transformation, a decades long process of becoming. There are chapters, but no destinations. And if you are able to visualize each stage as having a beginning, middle, and end  it will be easier to recognize God’s plan for you as He chooses to reveal it.  His plan is rarely the same one that we envision for ourselves, so, in the years to come, as you are surprised or sidelined unexpectedly or sent in directions unanticipated, remember that it is unfolding as it should be.  That’s when you will appreciate your already sharpened abilities to navigate change.

Each chapter has a specific lesson that God, in His all knowing wisdom, sees that you must learn. Painful chapters draw us near to Him, and joyful chapters illuminate the glory and wonder of our world. Both are important.

Matt, I love you. You are the son that every mother dreams of having. I could not be more thankful for you and proud of the man you have become.  Your character and integrity are important to you.  You are finding your voice and moving forward in positions of leadership.  God will rely on you to use that leadership to model the qualities of a good, honest and loving man.  You have been blessed with height and people will have to look up to you during your lifetime, the important thing is to make them want to.

A faith journey is a daily one.  It is vital to see our moral choices, both grave and not, as turning points.  Your choices will lead you closer to God or further from Him.  Lead you down a path toward a peaceful heart or a troubled one.  No choice is made in secret as God is always with you.  Choose wisely and you will live without regret, because real and lasting happiness has nothing to do with material possessions, it is a result of living your values, even when it is difficult. Even when choosing to stand for what is right means that you will lose friends or perhaps a job/position.

This gift of clear sightedness, to recognize the path that supports your values is the prayer that I will pray for you every day as you move forward into the world. Sometimes it is not so easy to discern.  We live in a world that rewards bad behavior in order to boost media ratings. A world that teaches athletes and leaders that there is some private permission to behave immorally because of their position. The temptations that come with success are real. The fallout of those lifestyles ruin families and deeply scar those closest to them. The most powerful leaders, the ones who affect real change, are the ones who choose to lead their families in the ways of love that strengthen the home and thus the community.

Senior year is a year of letting go, when motherhood becomes a complicated mixture of pushing you forward and holding you back. Every day I cry a few tears as I get used to the idea of your moving on from our home, but at the same time, I am so excited for you to embrace this next phase of life.  Have fun, work hard, and enjoy every single day.

I am in your corner, your loudest cheerleader, and proudest Mother at Brophy College Prep  ~ Love, Mom

(Posted with permission!)

The Sunny Room Studio

Some people in the world  are born to inspire others.  Daisy Hickman is one of those women.

I met Daisy one day online via author Laura Munson.  We clicked on each other’s blogs and a fast friendship was formed.  I was immediately drawn to her spirit.  A writer, a poet, and student of sociology she has created a beautiful space called The Sunny Room Studio where she reminds us that it is important to “Live in Rooms Filled with Light” (Aulus Cornelius Celsus).

She invites a variety of interesting writers to her blog as she believes that “there is much to be gained by addressing intriguing topics in a conversational setting.”  When I am feeling a bit low, I know that I can always head there for inspiration and food for thought.

A few weeks ago, I was flattered when Daisy invited me to be a guest.  After much thought and hand wringing, trying to figure out something worthy to say, I decided to share some of my writer’s journey.  I have always been intrigued by the  backstories of books.  Most of us toil for years before we can claim publishing credit and there were many tales and confessions from authors along the way that kept me moving forward, kept me grounded and able to put my own difficulties in perspective.  It is my hope to be able to do the same for others.

Come on over to The Sunny Room Studio, pull up a chair by clicking HERE, and let me share a few thoughts with you!

Heart Rocks

 

http://www.guideposts.org/hope-and-faith/family-finds-faith-heart-shaped-rocks

Ckick here to meet Katie Pohlman, the new witer in the family!

Dining Alone

As the taxi drove off I stood and studied the old-fashioned marquee that boasted the name of the Austin Motel.  It was suspiciously phallic shaped which seemed inappropriate for a family hotel.  I pulled open the glass door and stepped into 1974, a study in paneling and hanging plants. It had a homey, yet Kathy Bates sort of feel to it.  A twenty-something guy with short brown hair and a kind face jumped up from behind the chest high counter.

‘Hey,” he greeted me as he put down his magazine.

“Hey,” I casually responded with my business trip persona on full display. I wanted to ask him if he was aware that his marquee was an ill-advised shape.

“How many nights?”

“Just one.” He took my credit card and ran the transaction.

“Rm. 19”

“Thanks.”

“Up the driveway. Then up those stairs off to the right side.  Go left. Down to the middle of the parking lot.”

“Are there restaurants around here that I could get something quick and easy?”

“Plenty,” he said going into a detailed description of every eatery within a mile.

“Great.” I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and turned toward the door. “And is it safe for a woman to walk alone around here at night?”

“Oh sure,” he said.

“Perfect.”  I pushed on the door and felt a rush of cool air.

“But don’t hold me to it,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?”  I looked back at him as he handed me the key.

“I mean, no guarantees.”

“Thanks.”

I wheeled my suitcase across the paved driveway to the side steps and climbed my way up wondering how anyone with any sort of disability would maneuver this. The cool dark quiet of the Tuesday night started to feel too dark and too quiet.  My eyes shifted left then right searching for possible attackers in the foliage.  If there is one thing my mother taught me, it’s that danger lurks everywhere.

I finally found my room and let myself in.  Hmmm.  Interesting.  Though very clean and oddly comfortable, all of the pieces of furniture had absolutely no business sharing a room together. The rattan couch, the old bed, the grandmother’s dresser, the 30-inch TV and the sponge painting on the plaster walls in disturbing colors. The next time I see a website that boasts a quirky downtown hotel, I’ll understand the lingo.

I unpacked my business attire for the next day and then sat on the edge of the bed.  So… here I was, all alone on a Tuesday night in Austin. I glanced around, studied the cracks on the ceiling, and hummed a few bars of Deep in the Heart of Texas.

The night was young, and I was hungry. The problem was that I had never gone to dinner by myself before.  I hated the thought of it.  Sitting alone, ordering alone, chewing alone. Loserville.  But I didn’t want to end my day with a warm beer and a handful of M&M’s like the last trip.

I stood and stared in the mirror over the dresser to give myself a pep-talk, but I was immediately sidetracked into counting my brown spots.  One more and I would have an exact replica of the Big Dipper on my lower left jaw.

Oh, for goodness sakes.  If I am old enough to bear constellations I should be able to eat alone. I will be bold and conquer this fear.  If I am going to travel, I had better get used to it. Maybe I’d run into a lonely astronomer.  At the very least I could find take-out.

I spruced up, grabbed my handbag, stuck my keys between my knuckles like Edward Scissorhands and headed out into the night air, striding with my new purposeful walk.  If someone was going to mug me, I wouldn’t go down easy.

The receptionist had mentioned an Italian restaurant, Boticelli’s, down a few blocks and across the street.  I sized it up from my side of S. Congress. It looked inviting, not too large, with warm colors and good lighting.  As I crossed the busy street, I could see it was packed.  Great, all the more people to notice my loser status.  I gripped the handles of my black leather bag and walked through the front door.

It was exactly my kind of place.  Smallish, intimate without being stuffy, great energy and a lot of laughter.  People that were living our their ordinary Tuesday night with joy.  The white tablecloths announced that the food was serious business, and the waiters were busy.

I stood for an interminable forty-five seconds until a young Asian beauty walked over with a handful of menus.

“Table?” She asked with a smile that held more teeth than average.

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“One.”

“One?”

“Yes.”

“You mean one more?”

“No.  Just me.  Is that okay?  Can we use a table just for one person?”  Good one, Susan, like that’s something a bold, self confident woman would ask. Get a grip. And take your keys out of your knuckles this minute.

“ Sure. Here, let why don’t you just take this table right here.”

She sat me at a tiny two-top right next to the hostess stand.  It was perfect.  A fringe table. On the outskirts of popular.

I sat with my back to the wall so I could study the diners as well as my menu.  A handsome waiter with a shock of black hair falling across his forehead approached with a big smile and a basket of warm bread.

“Welcome to Boticelli’s.  How are we this evening?”

“We are fine,” I answered.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“A glass of red wine would be great.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Something bold, chewy.”

“I have just the one,” he said, his eyes narrowing in thought.

“Bring it on.”  Oh, and would you mind sitting with me and having a glass, or three?

He returned with a glass of red velvet and placed it before me with a flourish.  After a thorough recitation of the menu, I ordered the evening’s special and he was off to the kitchen.

I began to relax and enjoy myself.  Between sips of wine, I wrote the scene in my head (all writers do since we can’t help ourselves), concocting all sorts of elaborate story lines to go along with the characters sitting at each table.  Soon enough it was a dining room filled with sitcom families complete with over zealous laughter, stoney silences and furtive glances between characters married to other people.

The minute hand on the big clock over the bar ticked away. Where the heck was my food?

I craned my neck to get a glimpse of my waiter somewhere in the room, but he wasn’t there.  I poked at the bread basket and picked some imaginary lint off of my napkin. At a table to the right of the bar, a blonde woman, with perfect posture and cold blue eyes stared in my direction. The Stoney Silence table.

I decided to strike a casual yet alluring pose like I was pondering one of the unexplained phenomena of the universe. Gazing off into space I noticed a back door opening and closing. People entering and exiting.

The waiter appeared, “Sorry for the wait, m’am.”

“Oh, no problem,” I said, “I’m in no hurry.”   Please bring my food right now so I can gulp it down and leave.

“We didn’t expect to be so busy on a Tuesday. We’re a bit understaffed.”

“Hey, it happens.” Who called in sick?

“Another glass of wine?”

“Well,  I guess that would be okay.”  Duh.

He refilled my glass as I pulled my trusty notebook from my oversized black travel purse.  If I was going to be here awhile I figured I may as well pretend I was working so Miss Frosty over there could stop staring and get back to ignoring her date.

A character at the table to my left, the Brothers and Sisters table, glanced at me as the others began to fight over the bill, and then the snotty social climber with the puffy lips at  theHousewives of Austin table in the back corner actually pointed at me and whispered to her recently jilted friend who was considering returning the dress she was wearing since shiny pink did nothing for her.

A blush rose up my neck and the heat settled in my cheeks.  I had been revealed.  Yes, Ladies and Gentleman  I am dining alone and unloved.  Please pay your bills and leave me to my pasta.

My food finally arrived as the restaurant began to empty. The ravioli was delicious and warm and the aroma made me close my eyes and drift back to an evening on the Passeggiata in Nervi, Italy when Tim and I had sat at a cafe table under the stars, listening to the pounding surf below as we dined on Ligurian fare. Good food does that, it connects beautiful moments with invisible lines.

A few other loners wandered in and sat at the bar so I decided to finish my wine with them.  I hopped on the end stool just as an older gentleman in a plaid shirt with carefully combed grey hair came through the back door and stood at my elbow.  He placed his glass on the bar and the bartender filled it with the house chardonnay. They nodded to each other as he turned to leave.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Is there something outside?”

“Live music and a lovely terrace,” he said, his chocolate brown eyes matched his warm smile. “You should come see.”

“Is it all couples?”

“No.  You can sit with us if you wish.  We are on the bench right up front.”

“Thanks.  Maybe I will.”

He walked down the narrow hall and disappeared.  I paid the bill, picked up my glass, and headed toward the door.  It opened onto a large patio, with tables, and benches and a full stage under the canopy of a towering, ancient oak tree.

An all female band in Bohemian dresses and long curls, sang in harmony, haunting and sweet, to the tables filled with couples. I leaned against a tree off to the side and enjoyed the creative energy of these talented women, girls really, whose eyes twinkled as brightly as the stars through the leaves overhead. The crowd was transfixed.  There was beauty in the air floating amongst the notes.  I love the unexpected appearance of magic.

I searched for my friend at the bar and there he was on the front bench just like he said he would be, a woman’s head on his shoulder.  I wondered what she would do if I sat and put my head on his other shoulder just for laughs.

In this setting I did not feel lonely.  I felt proud for taking an ordinary Tuesday and pushing myself past my comfort zone. A night were I could have convinced my middle-aged self that I was too old for this. I was happy that I didn’t spend the evening alone in a hotel room when magic and joy and, yes, some uncomfortable moments were there for the offering right across the street. I wondered how many times I had already done that. Had wasted precious nights on fear.

I am starting to get the hang of this traveling thing.  I am wondering what will come next.

Saturdays From 1-3

For the rest of my life the phrase “Saturday from 1-3″ will hold a tender significance. Some authors loathe bookstore signings.  They warned me that they can be lonely places that do nothing but reinforce your deep fear that nobody really cares about your book.

“Bookstore events are a thing of the past,” they’d say. “The sale of a few books is not worth your time and travel expenses.  Use the internet.  It’s cheaper and reaches a larger audience.”

Perhaps there is truth to all of this. But the internet can’t replace the human exchange between the writer and the reader.  It is sacred territory. I am happy to sit, legs crossed and back straight, at a wobbly table near the entrance to the store.  Happy to drum my fingers on a stack of books waiting for new homes as the clock ticks because I know that there will come that one person who has driven to the store to meet me.

To laugh and share her tale of life in a foreign land that she misses with a desperation she can taste and just knew that I would understand. She wants to feel that again, alive and vibrant, and she thinks the book will transport her back to a happier time.

Or to sidle up to the table eyes cast downward, introducing himself as the father of a daughter who has left her husband. A father who finally lifts his gaze to mine to reveal blue eyes glistening with tears because, he blurts out, he loves them both. He doesn’t think they understand what this will do to the whole family. He prays that the book will give them hope, steer then back to each other.

And the one who strode with confidence to the table, picked up a copy and stated that he, as a clergyman, was offered a post in Rome.  But he just didn’t know if he had the courage to move there.  It would be three years, he confided with a voice that did not match his stride at all. Did I think he should go?  Perhaps the book would help in his decision.

Or the couple, hand in hand, searching for an adventure.  They saw the title in the paper and thought, why not?  Why can’t they do something like this? What’s stopping them other than their fear of the unknown. Could I share with them some of the nuts and bolts of moving abroad?

These are the exchanges that feed my writer’s soul.  A book is so much more than the author’s story, and I respect that sacred space between me and the reader.  The story finds its power in their souls, not mine.

So as I continue to call bookstores and ask if I might be able to set up a signing, I don’t mind if they tell me that their signings are not usually lucrative for the author.  Because I know that will not be the point of my being there.

The Ballerina

I boarded my connecting flight late on purpose. It had already been a long travel day, and I dreaded another two hours on a crowded plane. As I made my way toward the one vacant seat in back of the aircraft, I could see a frazzled, older woman standing in the aisle. She clutched a maroon tweed carry-on bag that was not going to fit under the seat no matter how hard she wrestled with it.
“Oh dear.  I thought this would work. What was I thinking?” Mumble, mumble. “No room in the overhead.”  More mumbling. “Gosh darn it.”
Her words, squeaked though the air as passengers all around pretended not to notice. Flustered, she looked past me toward the flight attendant who was motioning for her to bring the bag to the front of the plane so it could be checked. There was something about her exaggerated movements that didn’t feel right. Something was left of center. I didn’t have to look up at the seat numbers to know that I would be her lucky seat mate.
I stood to the side as she bustled past me, nervous and sweating, in her sea foam sweat suit worn thin by too many washings. I scanned the plane for another empty seat as I was in anot willing to converse with weirdos mood.  Unfortunately, the plane was full, so I pretended to check and recheck my things in the overhead until she returned and plopped into the window seat, exhaling loudly.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Nothing to worry about.” I wasn’t sure why she was apologizing.
“I don’t fly often,” her doe-brown eyes were magnified by the lenses of her glasses. Light brown curls framed her face.
“Hmmm,” I murmured as I pulled the flight card from the seat pocket and pretended to search for overwing exits. I was too tired to encourage her.  I wanted to take off, fall asleep, and wake up in Austin.
She buckled her seat belt and sat upright, her beige leather purse perched on her knees. “Do you?”
“Do I what?” I asked.
“Do you fly often?”
“I guess so.”
“For your job?”
“At times.”
“I am going to see some relatives.”
“That’s good.”  I could see that my short answers were not deterring her.
She continued to pepper me with questions while she took a small brush from her handbag and began to brush her hair. I hate it when people groom themselves on airplanes. I hoped she did not pull out some nail clippers next.
“Don’t worry, I’m not the type that will talk your ear off on the flight,” she said as she brushed the back of her hair with sudden intensity.
“I didn’t think so,” I said as I gave her my best fake, yet friendly smile. I put my head back and closed my eyes. I had a big day tomorrow.  Media training.
A few minutes later the plane accelerated down the runway and lifted into the air. We both glanced out the window as the ground shrank below us. Her hands wrapped around the handles of her purse. A deep breath. She began to hum.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a teacher, eighth grade. And a writer. You?”
“Oh, I don’t work.  Not anymore. I stopped before… How old are you?”
How old am I? Like that’s a normal thing to ask a stranger.
“Older than I want to admit,” I fake laughed. I pulled a novel from my bag and began to read. I would nip this in the bud right here.
She opened her purse and pulled out a Zip-Lock Bag of candy. She unwrapped a few Hershey Kisses and smacked her lips as she enjoyed them.  It was sort of making me queasy, all of these mouth noises and finger wiping. From the corner of my eye I saw her carefully, almost reverently, remove a photo from her purse. She slid it across my tray table.
“She was thirty-seven.”
Was.
A lovely ballerina stared up at me from the photo.  I picked it up and my heart wobbled.
“She was a serious dancer.”
Was.
“She’s beautiful,” I said as I studied her poised on the tips of her satin toe shoes, auburn hair pulled taunt into a bun.
“You would have loved her,” the woman added as she touched my arm. “She taught extreme sports in the off season.  Anything to pay the bills. Spirit.  That’s what she was known for. People loved her spirit. Filled the room.”
I slid the photo back in her direction and looked into her wounded, magnified eyes, expecting tears.  There were none, just the far away cast that said she was remembering. My insides ached as I realized what was happening.
Of course I didn’t recognize right away what made her different.  How could I when my own daughter was safe and happy. Grief can rearrange a person. The weight of sorrow can pull anyone left of center.
Shame crept in. I had to stop judging people so quickly. “I have a feeling we would have been good friends,” I said.
“It’s been three years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Breast cancer.”
“Awful.”
“Now, I told you.  I’m not one of those types to talk your ear off.” She proceeded to tell me all of the disturbing details.
We settled into our respective silences.  I could concentrate on my novel about as well as she could concentrate on the prayer cards she kept pulling from her purse. How does a mother let go of her baby girl?  I prayed with all of my might that I would never have to find out. After awhile she pulled out a carefully folded newspaper clipping and slid it across the tray table. “Since you’re a writer. You’ll appreciate this.”
I unfolded the paper and proceeded to read a lovely tribute to her daughter, indeed an established dancer in Los Angeles.  The same photo she had handed me earlier adorned the piece.
“This is wonderful.”
“We couldn’t afford a proper obituary by the end.  All of our money was gone. The church supported us through so much of it…but her friend, John, he knew the writer.”
She took the clipping and carefully replaced it.  A few more Hershey Kisses disappeared.
“You know.  The worst day…”
I braced myself.  I was not the strongest when it came to emotional pain.
“…was the day she lost her arabesque.”
Her arabesque? What about her breasts? What about the day she lost her life?
“That was the day we looked at each other and knew.”
“I am lost for words,” I said, my eyes watering.
“A dancer needs her arabesque.”
We nodded at each other. A nod between mothers paints far more than a thousand words. We settled again into a comfortable silence.  She watched the fiery sunset through the clouds, and I watched her watching it.
“I hope I can be the kind of mother you’ve been,” I said to her as we landed. “Your sharing this with me gave her one more performance.”
“What do you mean?” her eyes lit up like I was the director of the Joffrey Ballet Company.
“Your sweet ballerina danced right into my heart. And when a writer says this, it means that one day, she will dance across a page… and into readers’ hearts forever.”
We looked at each other a long moment, and she blinked back tears. Then she stood with her purse. “She had a spirit, you know? The kind of of spirit that would fill a room.”