ALICIA LETS THE towel slip from her sunburned shoulders and adjusts the goggles. A volunteer secures a number to the strap of the swimsuit, nudging her into a procession of shivering girls dropping off the end of the pier. In the dream the river is cold and muddy, the current swift.
Awake, she listens to the snowflakes rake the side of the house, its spare cedar frame shuddering in the bracing December gust. Somewhere nearby a patch of ice splinters; a fox crossing a pond, she guesses.
In the top bunk, Dougie kicks off his blankets.
“You awake, sis?”
“Count giraffes,” she says. “You like giraffes.”
He goes quiet. Asleep, she hopes.
“He’s back!” Dougie disappoints, pushing away from the window, dropping to the floor and crawling in beside her. “Take a look if you don’t believe me.”
But Alicia is tired, and Dougie is an imaginative boy. When his breathing evens she tiptoes to the kitchen for a sip of water. She peeks out the window, but sees no sign of – what was it he saw this time? Oh, yes: a little man. A little man who looks like a leprechaun.
I go back to find her, and it’s all different now. Everyone’s changed, the little ones grown, the ones in my heart ancient. They’re not the auburn-haired Jackie-O or the wide-smiling JFK cruising city streets in a mustang convertible playing the easy breezy sixties. They’re the ones I thought they’d never be, the diaper-clad, walker-bound who brace against pain, straining to grasp words that remind them of who they were.
That life behind a dome-glassed snow globe is picture-pretty on a shelf. I shake it, and the flakes dance down, lovely like, but I can’t melt them on my tongue. I cradle the frosty globe in my palm and remember.
I’ve become who they were when they were Mary Tyler Moore and Dick Van Dyke, forever grown-ups in the living room. But I’m still her, wanting what she can no longer have, wanting what is no longer hers, wanting what was given away. In a garage sale. Pennies on the dollar. Covered by layers of decorating in the shade of apathy. Traded in for Glen Campbell with bell bottoms, loose hips, and fast money.
Careless with the sacred, they let the gypsies in, their aching bellies and grubby hands snatching ours to make it theirs. They, of the new dad, no longer ours. They, of the polished shoes, private schools, and gazebo living. They, of the ever-changing storefront window. We, of the faceless mannequins, exposed. Shirts off our backs, for sale.
We crowded into a clapboard house with jagged paint, velvet sheen walls and electric blue shag underfoot, distracting us from flimsy instability. It shook when the wind blew. It shook as a reminder of what was. It shook as a reminder of what would never be. It shook when he exploded in rage. It shook when he exploded with desire. It shook when he slammed the door for the last time.
The gypsies have prospered; the colony, whole in its brought-to-you-by-him togetherness. He spilled out his eyes, ears, and steps for them. We are scattered and shattered. Desolation pods. Empty-handed, they come to us, the broken ones, asking for what is ours. If not for him, we’d shutter the store, dismantle the window, and take our mannequins home.
I still can’t find her. The girl. Perhaps she’s inside the globe too. I’ll shake it and see. Or maybe just shatter it and release her from the forever snow.
Arthur C. Ford,Sr. was born and raised in New Orleans,La..While in college he performed parts in several plays and did the lead role in Ossie Davis’s “Purlie Victorious”. Acting catapulted him to writing and presently publishing poetry.
He received a B.S. Degree from Southern University in New Orleans(S.U.N.O.), travel to 45 states of America, resided in Europe for two years(Bruxelles, Belgium) and travelled for 30 days(July/2011) throughout the country of India.
His poetry, lyrics and prose have been published in many journals, magazines, etc..
He presently lives in Pittsburgh,Pa., and continues to write and publish poetry.
It is a large three-storey building that has the banner, covering most the frontage of the middle floor, when looked at, from an exterior view, the multi-coloured banner that reads: Creative Publishing Press…a literary forte where writers become authors. The office of the publishing manager is at the third floor. The symbol representing stacks of book by an individual writing on a table, is also depicted in the banner.
The first floor is the Production Department. This is where they are various machines designed to make ready formatted and edited manuscripts print-ready and publication-worthy—for marketing and distribution. They are ten to fifteen workers operating the heavy-duty and electricity-powered machines. The second floor has in it the various offices. There is the Legal Department office; where there are two employed intellectual property lawyers that draft fair contracts which would serve as the basis for business between authors—those whose works have been accepted for publication—and the publishing company.
There is the Editorial Department Office. This is where the various editing sections take place. Editors, five to ten in number, have the responsibility of touching the manuscripts such as grammar corrections, revision, content addition or subtraction at the three-stage processes, known as editing passes. The Media and Publicity Office has trained media professionals and publicists, whose tasks are to provide quality interviews for published authors, publish them in various major dailies and the much-needed publicity to get their names heard throughout Perth and beyond.
The largest part of the second floor is occupied by the Bookstore Department Office. This is where books of published authors are showcased and available for readers to purchase directly from the company at discounted prices. There is the store manager and attendant. All of the offices are spacious enough and have in-built in them well-designed synthetic ventilators. The last floor is exclusively for the founder and publishing manager. It is called Office of The Publisher. It is the most spacious office in the building. Any visitor would have to stay at the Secretary’s Corner pending when the publisher is ready to attend to that person. The office of the Publisher has a mini-library where all books of published authors solely by the company are showcased.
