Z: So whatja writing?
A: (Flattens herself against the computer screen) Nada.
Z: (Wily, wooly brow lift to the ceiling) This is what some would call over-reaction!
A: This is what some would call none-of-your-bees-wax.
Z: (He stares)
A: (She stares)
Z: Very well, don't tell me. I really don't want to know. I'm going for coffee and cheese cake.
A: Good. Enjoy!
Angelica wasn't usually this unrelenting, or rude, or reactive... Well, maybe the reactive part might be on the quarter, but she was writing something intimate, something draw up from her emotional backpack that she thought once buried in the heap of forgetfulness, and she didn't know if she was ready to share. It was a dedication for her grandparents, for a book they just wrote and are about to submit.
She never her parental grandfather for he died before she was born. She knew very little about paternal grandmother, for the woman was old before Angelica could truly comprehend her own self. Still, upon writing BEYOND THE THRESHOLD certain stories came to mind. Stories that made her laugh, and made her understand where some of the odd quirks within her had been birthed. But would she put this particular dedication in the book? She didn't know. She sat at her computer desk, and read it through once more.
My Gram followed her Amish heart off the farm and into my, deceased before I was born, grandfather’s arms. It must not have been easy being shunned by family and friends, or living a life so different from her childhood. I only knew her as my Gram, my Dad’s mother, who we would visit a few times a years in the hills of Pennsylvania. Though elderly, sickly and quiet, she always had a hug and gift for me, once a doll as tall as the three-year-ole me. That doll now belongs to my granddaughter. As I grew, I asked about Gram, and discovered she didn’t used to be the frail figure of wrinkles, gray and brittle bones who I barely knew. She once ice skated and claimed a city championship. She once stormed the men’s club with gal-pals and demanded they be served beer. Her reserved upbringing fell away as the modern world opened her mind and she devoured all she didn’t know. I was told she could cook a professional chef to tears, but preferred being the single couple left on the dance floor winning the blue ribbon or the only amateur singer still blowing cig smoke as she torch sing a naughty-of-the-century song. She was a fashionista, dresses with slits to the moon, showing off lacy garter belts even when there were no stockings to buy. She didn’t fear wearing make-up or a hardy laughter, nor was she shy of a wink, or flirty chat. My grandfather would laugh it off, proud of having unleashed the real Hellion, his nick-name for her. Their two sons receive more of a grandparent up bringing with a sidebar of buddy system parenting. Yet, my dad and uncle, thrived very well. They learned about morals and strategies from an elder generations, and how to speak their minds vent issues from their parent’s age bracket. Knowing I carry their spirits within me keeps me open to experiences, to seeing outside the box, and fighting for what I believe is worthy a bloodied nose. Thank you, Gram and Pop, thank you for who you were and allowing me to believe you don't have to be the untarnished cookie-cutter to still fit in the family silverware draw. I love you both, and I dedicate this book to you. The inspiration of knowing when to stay, when to leave, and when to say the hell with it, comes directly from you. Cheers, Gram and Pop
A: (Blinks away a threatening tear) Hey, Zi, wait up. I have something for you to read. Hmmm, did you say cheesecake?
Be thankful every day for family and/or friends. Love is tough to come by and when you have it don't ever let go. Happy Thanksgiving to all Americans who celebrate it anywhere in the world
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Angelica Hart and Zi ~ Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane
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