Last Choice

NOTE: This entry is fiction. It's the result of a writing assignment from the Tolovana Arts Colony writing group I've linked into - an exercise titled "If this were your last day, how would you spend it?"

It is NOT autobiographical. However, as a novice fiction writer I am drilled to "write what I know." So, though I draw from life as I know it, and while this is not a real incident nor are these characters real people, I have to admit if you know my life, some things are, I apologize...so very familiar. I like how a classmate and new friend puts it (citing Joyce Carol Oates) - "I'll tell you my truth, but it will come out as fiction."

At some point, I hope to become skilled enough in fiction that nothing I write is recognizable; except what is universally human. And there we are. All in the same camp.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


She knew this was her day.

Yes, there'd be more days ahead, but they would become clouded, vaporous. This was her day that she chose for herself, while she still could. Choice had become her most sacred companion. This friendship with self-design had become...how could she explain it? Delicious. Yes; that was it - sumptuous; delectable; sensuous even. This time there was no default; no fall-back plan-B arranged around appeasement, the safe-guarding of others' needs at all costs. This was about pure, unadulterated self-comfort. And it was luscious.

Like the melty, chocolaty, marshmallow-gooey graham cracker mess sticking to her grandchildren's fingers as they leaned into the campfire, setting their smore-ish concoctions ablaze. They were cherubic, those fingers. She wanted to lick them, to keep forever in her mouth the taste of babies, toddler-hood story time, rocking and singing together in the big gold chair, racing through the play-ground monkey-bars playing tag-you're-it, squeezes and giggles and wrap-their-scrawny-little-arms-around-her-neck hugs that stole her breath and heart.

"Mom. How you doin'? Are you warm enough?" Mark reached over and tucked the blanket tighter around her.

He looked at her, his eyes soft, but straight on. He always made sure they connected. Even at times when it would've been easier not to, he did. She looked up at him and once again they smiled at each other deeply, as if to reassure each others' soul; to reassure their own.

"I'm doing great, honey."

She leaned back in her chair digging her toes deeper into the sand and gazed up at the Dipper. Earlier Venus had been the show, had hung brilliant and solitary, dancing for the longest time between light and dark; between indigo and tangerine, sky and horizon, chasing the sun, changing partners, but now, rollicking among the crystalline chorus-line - a part of an incandescent anthem. She understood this Venus-dance; she was coming to know this song. She took a deep breath and inhaled the notes.

And there they were: the campfire; the sea; the sand; her children and grandchildren, their voices as aroma penetrating her senses clean through to her cells. Their laughter now, around the campfire - a love potion.

"Mom, remember the time...," Leigh was laughing so hard she couldn't finish. Her luxurious doe-eyes, those eyes that seemed to behold and reflect wisdom, that could shimmer mischief, that could ooze love right back onto itself, were now crinkled in tears and whimsy. Leigh was pulling her youngest son, Samuel, onto her lap, wrapping her arms around him and burying her laughter into the nape of Samuel's neck.

She could smell that neck with Leigh.

"You guys were so mean," said Scott. "Giving me head-swishies in the toilet. I was a little kid! Freakin' scared me to death."

He drooped his eyes, pouted his lips way out and despite his tattoos and dangling cigarette, managed to look every inch the innocent. But he couldn't stifle glee; couldn't hinge a mirth rescued from flames, re-born from angst, and throwing his head back he cackled from such a deep and lavish place that everyone around the campfire was captured with him; even the little ones joined in, their giggles like harmonized tinkling bells. His laugh was contagious, just like his spirit.

"Aww; come on little brother...we weren't really mean. That's just, you know, sibling protocol," said Mark, his laugh deep and long, like a sigh that had waited a long time, and now reveled in its release and goodness. He saluted Scott with his beer.

Scott raised his, which sent all the grown-ups into motion.

"Here's to us," said Leigh, raising her wine glass.

"To us," they chorused.

Yes, she thought, to us.

There were a lot choices they had all made through the years. Choices that made them who they were. Some choices came from places that drove them; drove them to survive; to just make it through. Some came from recoil; some were scripted; and some, yes by God, some were freely decided - rationally, deliberately, selected in grace.

Her daughter-in-law leaned over and whispered to her,

"This is so fun. I'm glad you planned it."

"Yes. Me too, sweetie."

She felt her scarf start to slip off her head, felt the chill actually, and reached up to adjust herself against the night. Her fingers brushed the scar in her naked scalp, but she refused their usual impulse to linger. She knew its line by heart. No need. Not now. No.

The fire popped. Its glow warming the remaining strands of night. They were all there, around the campfire - warming the night with her.

"Gramma?"

"Yes, darlin'."

"My fingers sticky."

She looked at them.

"Ohhhh, yes they are!" she said, as she cupped Samuel's hand, licking his fingers, savoring the gooey messiness of love, sending him into squeals of laughter as he wriggled away.

"Nah, nah. Can't catch me Gramma!"

"Oh yes I can! You better run, Samuel. Gramma's gonna catch you and eat those tasty little fingers right up!"

And she leapt out of her chair, chasing Samuel beside the dune.

Yes. While there was still a dusky campfire light.

Yes. While the sea hummed; while the sky glittered.

Yes.

To us.

Yes.