american flag.

People thought they were mother and daughter.

And they could have been. One woman’s hair was graying and wrinkles were appearing on her face. Their eyes, similar shades of blue, sparkled in the same way. They spoke the same, even.

Ten years of living together will do that to you.

They sat across from each other, maintaining a façade they had to keep up because the younger woman donned a military uniform, the forest green bringing out the red highlights in her blonde hair. The older woman thought that it made her look elegant.

The uniform would be pressed and put away when they arrived home, though, for it kept them from being who they were. It separated them, so they hid it, just like they had to hide their relationship when the uniform was out.

The worst moment comes when she has to leave again, and they stand at the airport and hug briefly. There is no kiss goodbye, no “I love you;” no long embrace to last them the length of time apart or the distance between them. The younger woman tells her Captain that the woman who dropped her off is her mother, and even though she knows it has to be said, it hurts when she hears the words spill out of her soft lips. The woman with the graying hair and the beautiful skin is so far from her mother it’s ridiculous. Her Captain would be embarrassed if he knew what they spent the night doing.

The woman with the graying hair always spends the first night she is gone fully awake, praying out loud and asking a God she doesn’t even believe in to make sure that her lover stays safe. It is on one of these nights that she gets the call – driving from the airport to their camp, their platoon was hit. No survivors.

The funeral is the hardest. The young woman’s father, an Army General, receives the flag, unaware his daughter, an Officer Cadet, was even in a relationship. The older woman stands off to the side, hugging her arms to her chest. She wants to storm the casket, tell the world that they were together, and say goodbye, but instead she leaves, stepping lightly to keep her heels from sinking in to the grass. The gunshots make her flinch as she walks away.

She is barely to the parking lot when the Captain catches up with her, a folded flag tucked under his arm.

“Ma’am?”

She turns, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I thought – they said there were no survivors.”

He looks down. “I wasn’t with them. I stayed behind to finish paperwork. I was going to follow the next day.” It is clear he feels responsible as he lets out a deep breath. “I know you aren’t her mother.”

The wrinkles on the woman’s face deepen. “I’m sorry?”

He holds out the flag, pressing it in to her hands. “I’m smarter than Angela thought.”

“Only family members get these,” she whispers, staring down at the flag. It isn’t enough, but at least it’s something.

“You were her family,” he says, stepping closer to her. “And I know I would want my husband to have one.”

Her eyes widen with surprise and he nods at her, turning around and walking back towards the burial site. She watches him go and then leaves for home, resting the flag on her mantle when she gets there. She receives some of Angela’s belongings later in the month, and silently thanks the Captain for knowing what they couldn’t tell.

When people come over and ask about the flag, she tells them that it was for her daughter. Even years later, it’s hard to let go of the façade.

church.

it is raining. your shoes squeak as you follow him between the pews - you’re wearing Chucks. in a Catholic church. on a Sunday. which is what happens when you let him surprise you.

he crouches; head, chest, left side, right side. you follow suit, surprised to see him still standing when you look up.

“i like the aisle,” he says, holding his right hand towards the pew to indicate that you should go first. you do, sitting down far enough away from the aisle for him to sit. when he does, your thighs touch. you shift towards the middle.

the woman in front of you is clutching rosary beads; amber colored and draped gracefully across her knuckles. they remind you of the ones hanging next to your desk at home - made of olive wood and carefully carved by a monk who gave them to your parents on the streets of Assisi, Italy. you can feel the wood drape over your fingers.

your eyes wander during the service, tracing the paintings on the walls and the arches in the corners and the lines of his neck, which make him look regal, even just sitting in a pew.

your knees scream at you when you kneel while the rest of them pray. you don’t know if he participates because you are lost in your head, thinking of spiritual things and the way the church grounds looked and how good he smells.

the ride home is relatively silent. you say that you liked the service, he says that he didn’t. you thank him for taking you; he hugs you over the seatbelt as you sit in front of your house and says that you should go again. you agree.

inside, you pick up the rosary beads. they drape over your fingers and you kneel like the woman, pressing the beads to your chest.

you feel nothing.

confinement.

he is trapped.

he reaches for where the door handle was, but it is gone. his hands slide along the cold wall, feeling the raised bumps catch along the ridges of his fingertips. he feels for a door handle, a hinge, a change in wood - anything to indicate an escape from the black surrounding him.

something skitters across the floor, running directly into his bare foot. it is metal - cold as he presses his foot on top of it. a ring.

his body slides down the wall and he fumbles in the dark, finding the circular object with his fingers. he rolls it around in his left hand, letting it slip over the tip of his third finger and slide past his knuckle. it fits.

the room begins to change and suddenly he is in their home, perched on the tile counter, his right leg hanging between two bar stools. she is on the couch, their chocolate lab sprawled across the rest of the piece of furniture, his head in her lap. she is watching the NCAA championship game; the one he recorded for her because she wanted so much for Duke to win. she brushes a strawberry lock out of her face, and he realizes she isn’t even watching the game. he comes to the conclusion that she has it on for the noise when her head dips down and she laughs, the dog’s tongue lapping across her face. her joy is interrupted by the phone ringing, and she stands, taking her lanky body over the back of the couch to get to the kitchen phone. he hates it when she does that.

he says her name; twice. she picks up the phone. everything starts to go dark again, and the last thing he sees is her face, laced in terror, and he knows. it was the call.

his thumb traces the ring on his finger and he shifts, laying on the ground. his eyes adjust to the dark and he finally sees the light silver outline of the ring on his finger. he whispers her name, letting each letter roll off his tongue like drops of strawberry juice sliding down the back of his throat.

when they finally find him, his right hand is clutching his left ring finger, and his mouth is slightly open, like the most beautiful word in the world just rolled off his tongue.

cigarette.

there is something glamorous about her first cigarette. it happens in a restaurant parking lot, leaning against a forest green tailgate, each person holding a different cigarette in the crevice between their pointer and middle fingers.

the cigarette settles between her dry lips, sticking to the spongey skin as she leans towards the lighter and sucks her cheecks in, the nicotine and carcinogens burning the inside of her mouth. she peels the cigarette from between her lips, a steady stream of smoke billowing in front of her nose. there are words and laughter around her, but all she can hear are mumbles of incoherence. the sound of the burning paper is louder than she would have imagined.

she takes another drag on the cigarette, letting the smoke swirl in between her teeth before she swallows and then lets out a breath.

and the coughs.

it’s not at all glamorous, but no one seems to notice it as she presses the cigarette back between her lips, inhaling as she sucks in on the cigarette. the smoke burns her esophagus and her tongue tastes like dirt, but she likes it. the idea that she can do this - smoke this cigarette, be this person - it is intriguing to her.
she feels a little like a Hepburn dragging on the cigarette, but the moment begins to lose its glamour when her surroundings return. a car honks from the corner of the parking lot and the restaurants flourescent lights come back in to focus. the cigarette looks like burning death in between her fingers, but she continues to drag on it, feeling a little like a rebel amongst good people.

the cigarette burns down to its last drag and she lets it drop from between her fingers, pressing it in to the ground underneath her right toe.

a next destination is confirmed and they pile back in to their cars, the smell of the different cigarettes lingering with them. she can taste the carcinogens etched in to her tongue; can feel the smoke still settling in her lungs, and though she told herself she would never get addicted, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she’ll have another.

The Necklace - an excerpt from a currently untitled piece

His wife finds the necklace while looking for something else; the black box falls out of a pink stocking, one she’s never seen before.

A small set of sterling silver toe shoes stare back at her from inside the box. She runs her thumb over the outline of each slipper, remembering how they used to feel on her feet.

“Ally?”

She looks up, shutting the box on her finger. “Ow.”

He hides his laughter and steps closer to her. “What are you looking at?”

“Toe shoes.”

“Oh.” She opens the black velvet box and he looks down. “Oh.”

“They’re pretty.”

He nods. “They’re not for you.”

“What?”

“The necklace – it isn’t for you.” He stares at the floor. “It’s for her.”

“Her?” He nods. “I’m sorry, but who is her?”

“Our daughter.”

“Our…” She smiles softly. “James, we don’t have a daughter.”

“Our future one.”

“I would have to be pregnant first.”

“It’s not like I’m not trying.” He looks up and she laughs, nodding. “I fell in love with you while you were wearing shoes like that.”

“I know.”

“I thought that maybe our little girl could wear toe shoes too.”

“You want our daughter to be a ballerina?”

“If she wants to be.”

A chuckle slips from her mouth. “Oh I see.”

He sits down next to her on the guest bed and reaches for the box, opening it. “I saw them, and thought they would look pretty with her red hair.”

“James, I’ll remind you…”

“She doesn’t exist yet, I know. But you have red hair, and I…” He shakes his head. “This is embarrassing, Ally.”

“It’s adorable, honey.”

He sighs, reaching for her hand. “I just want her to have beautiful things.”

“She’ll have a beautiful father.”

“That’s cliché.”

“You bought her a toe shoe necklace. That’s not cliché?”

“Should I have purchased something bright pink instead?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “No. These are perfect. I’m sure she’ll love them – whenever she gets them.”

He smiles, nods, and stares at the box. Ally goes back to searching for Christmas decorations, but James remains seated, even long after his wife has left the room.

¥

They try, and they try, and he begins to buy things. A yellow blanket with a duck embroidered in the corner, a baby name book that ends up in her Christmas stocking; sheets and blankets meant for a crib they don’t have, or need, yet.

He hides the purchases in the trunk of his car, or the attic, where she won’t go, but he starts to get embarrassed so he stops buying and just looks instead, making a mental list of everything he wants to purchase once she’s pregnant.

When the doctor tells them that she’s unable to carry, he blames himself. He bought the items – jinxed what they wanted. He packs everything he purchased in to a box; tossing the black velvet one in with the rest of it before he seals the box with packing tape and sets it in the back corner of the attic. He is on his way out when he stumbles over a box near the front, his wife’s block lettering glaring at him from across the cardboard. BABY.

He opens the box, finding more merchandise than even he purchased. Pink shoes, white shoes, blue sleepwear; enough clothes to last a child two weeks. At the bottom is a baby book, and when he opens it, Ally’s neat handwriting jumps out from the first page.

December 11

Today your Daddy bought you toe shoes. He doesn’t know that you might be a boy – neither of us do. You aren’t even sort of here yet, but we know you are coming. He just wants you to have pretty things, but he doesn’t know that you already have the most beautiful thing in the world – him.

December 25

Merry Christmas! I bought you an ornament – don’t tell Daddy, he doesn’t know I’m buying you things yet. He probably wouldn’t want me to – I think he’s afraid we’ll jinx it. But you’re coming. Soon, I can feel it.

The entries begin to blur together as he turns the pages, finding months and months of one-way correspondence. He can tell when he’s on the last page because of the tear stains, Ally’s handwriting strained and smaller.

November 23

We went to the doctor today. He said that I can’t carry you – that I probably won’t ever be pregnant. I just don’t understand. We want you so much. How is this fair?

James clambers down the attic steps, clutching the baby book in his hand. Ally is kneeling in the guest room, rifling through boxes.

“Al?”

“The toe shoes. Where are the toe shoes?”

“They’re in a box in the attic.” He sighs. “Ally, I’ll get them in a minute. Look at me.”

“I want them now.”

“Ally, sweetheart.” He sits down on the ground next to her. “I’ll go get them, but I want you to look at me.”

She pulls away from the box, looking over at him. Her face is stained with tears and he closes his eyes, letting out a slow breath. “What?”

“Don’t give up on this.”

“The doctor said…”

“I don’t care.” He snaps, opening his eyes. “Doctors are wrong. They are wrong all the time.” He sets the baby book down in front of her. “You want this.”

“Where did you find that?”

“I tripped over the box and opened it. Ally, you want this baby – we both do. So don’t give up. We’ll find a way.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know, James. It’s already been a year.”

He reaches for her hand, pulling her across the carpet and closer to him. “We’re strong enough for this. You know we are.”

She lets out a slow breath. “Erin and Shawn tried, and they…”

“We’re stronger than that. I won’t leave.”

Ally stares at her jeans, picking at a hole in the thigh. He reaches for her hand, stopping only when she looks up at him. “Promise?”

“Cross my heart. I will never leave you.”

¥

“James!”

“I’m coming!” He thunders down the stairs, turning the corner in to the kitchen. “Do you have everything?”

“It’s all outside already.”

“Good.” He smiles and kisses her. “Then let’s go.” He opens the door for her, and the couple joins a group of three year-olds and their parents on the back deck. “Presents!”

The children race to the table, surrounding the birthday girl and swinging their legs back and forth because they’re still too short to reach the ground. Shouts of “me first” echo through the backyard, and James watches as Ally fields all of their requests and keeps the strawberry blonde that belongs to him from being overwhelmed.

He doesn’t step forward until all of the other presents have been opened, and then he crouches down next to her, tapping her shoulder. “I have one more.”

“More?” Olivia turns around, her hair catching the light. “From who?”

“From me, silly girl.”

His daughter giggles and reaches, her small hands wrapping tightly around the black box. She wrenches it open and lets out a loud gasp. “Toe shoes?”

“Your very own pair.”

James can barely catch himself before Olivia has scrambled out of her place between the other children and is pressed against him, her tiny arms wrapped as tightly around his neck as they can be. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Red.” She giggles at the nickname and hugs him tighter. James catches his wife’s eye and smiles. She smiles back, though there are tears in her eyes. They’ve waited years for this moment.

“Papa, let go.” She whispers, her breath fluttering the graying hair by his ears. “I want to go play.”

He lets go, looking in to her bright green eyes. “Go play, pretty girl.”

She smiles and escapes from the deck, a motley crew of children still learning how to control their arms and legs following her.

She’s back a few minutes later, crawling in to her mother’s lap as the adults sit on the deck. “Can I wear them?”

He nods, reaching for the black velvet box and slipping the necklace around her neck. She tucks it in to her shirt, pats her chest for safekeeping, and heads back to her friends, her hair flying in the wind.

“They look beautiful on her,” Ally says, reaching for his hand. He nods, but says nothing, remembering only the day he purchased them, when he saw his little girl running around with toe shoes around her neck in his head. The image is more perfect than he ever could have imagined.

Woman.

I am in love with a woman.

She is beautiful; her hair is always perfect and her clothes always fit just right so her size does not matter. She is strong; never bites her nails or shows insecurity. She thrives in heels and crosses her feet at the ankles, tucking her legs to the side when she sits. She wears pearls on her good days, and they rest on her neck just above where her tattoo is hidden beneath cover-up and the neckline of her sweater. She only wears pajamas when she is alone, and prefers jeans to skirts.

She loves a man, and together they love their children, who are mirror images of their mother. Before the children she drank scotch, now she sips wine. She smokes cigarettes when she is stressed, and only in secret. She keeps her memories in a locked box, and only dances in private, or when she is drunk.

She paints her fingernails, but not her toes. She has a pair of earrings for every day, and lets her youngest pick out which pair she will wear, matching her clothing to her five-year-olds mood. She rolls around in the grass with her dog and goes running with her closest friends, but only when she has had a bad day at work.

She is an environmentalist, a learner; a lover of politics. She plays with her necklace when she thinks, bites her lip when she's concerned; arches an eyebrow in indifference. She is religious on sundays; uses curse words on fridays. She is unique - fits no mold except her own, and renders awe from each person she meets.

She plays baseball, watches football, knows her alma mater's fight song by heart, and is the loudest person in the stadium at home games. She is funny when she wants to be, has a contagious laugh, and causes those who care about her to cry when she does.

She loves thunderstorms and dancing in the rain; hates snow and snowball fights. She can build a fire better than her husband but can only make meals that come in a box or a can.

I am in love with a woman.

I see her every day.

She is my reflection, my best friend, my mentor, your sister, his lover, her lover; someone's mother.

She will always be the strongest person I know, even if she doesn't think she is. She reminds the world every day how beautiful she is.

Do you know who she is?

Love.

You know the words. Repeat them with me.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preserves.

Except here’s the thing, sugar.

Love is not patient. Or kind. it is not God’s work or a thing of beauty. It is vile, repulsive. You hate it, and yourself. It changes you.

Love is long-distance marriages, common law marriages, people who want to get married but can’t, people who don’t want to get married and do, people who shouldn’t get married; people you never thought would find someone and did.

Love is good decisions for bad reasons and bad decisions for good reasons; it is good sex and bad fights; bad sex and good fights. Love is confusing, uncertain, unexpected. It is different political views, different religions; one partner wanting children and one not.

It is falling for someone you hate; beginning to hate someone you once loved. It is knowing you were meant to be with someone 15 minutes into the first date, and it is not realizing that you are not right for each other until 15 years too late.

Love is a lot of things. It is rain and snow, broken shoes and torn clothes, friendship bracelets and white-gold rings; arguments over dinner and make-up sex, but it is not patient, and it is not kind. It will break you, but you won’t mind. In fact, you will love it.