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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
Please read my stories! If you would like to offer me feedback on my work, please click here and sign up for a free membership: https://heftynicki.Writing.com
I hope to see you there!
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The Fall The woman chose a flat rock with an ample vantage point, and sat down with a journal. After a day in the sun, its heat radiated up to deflect the chill autumn air. She closed her eyes, lifted her chin, and inhaled the fragrant air. Then she opened the journal.
Well, Fall is definitely here. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude for a last chance to take in the splendid oranges and fiery reds of the season. I’ve always loved this time of year. Libra season. It’s fitting, somehow, that it'll be my last. I was born in the Fall, too...
Tomorrow it'll rain, and the last of these leaves will be on the ground. Another reason to be grateful, that Dr. Shepard canceled my appointment this afternoon.
Dr. Shephard. Be prepared, he’d said. You may not make it until that sweet granddaughter is born, he’d said. How we’d cried, Emma and I, hugging as close as we could with her swollen belly between us.
I’m nearly finished with the baby’s dress. I was so mad at myself for cutting the pattern wrong. These old eyes. But she’ll grow into it. The fabric is so pretty. This week I’ll embroider the little heart someplace. On the pocket maybe? Or the collar? Every dress I made for Emma had a hidden heart. A little of my love sewn in. How she’d loved to look for them.
“Mama!”
The woman dabbed her eye, looking up in time to see the running toddler tumble to the grass, fistfuls of red leaves in each hand.
“Did you fall down, bunny?” She kissed her forehead as she set the child back on her feet.
The girl giggled as the woman tickled her tummy, her hand lingering on the little pink heart embroidered on the pocket.
(word count = 298)
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