Memory Show

Characters:

Willa

Justin

Amelia

Male Chorus

Female Chorus

Note: Chorus roles can be divided between one or two males and one or two females.

Willa: (To audience) It was my first solo art show. I was the low man on the totem poll, so they gave me a Tuesday. The budget was small but at least I got to choose the food myself. I tried to pack as much symbolism into the hors d’oeuvres as possible.

Justin: (To audience) It was my wife who found the invitation to Willa’s art show, delivered to our home. My wife who booked the plane and the hotel.

Chorus/Wife: You haven’t seen this woman since what, high school? She always sends us thoughtful presents on Madelyn’s birthday. You’re going, game over. Wife wins fight before fight happens.

Justin: (Sigh) Yes Hon.

(to audience) Suddenly I found myself in a small downtown New York gallery, wondering exactly how I’d gotten there.

Willa: (To Justin) You want to know how you got here? How both of us did?

Justin: Um….(Implied: No, but you’re about to tell me anyway)

Willa: Justin and I—(points to him) That guy— began our adventure, winding slowly toward friendship, immediately following high school English class.

Justin: Ah, here we go. This memory.

Chorus/Teenage Willa: Hi, Justin.

Chorus/Teenage Justin: Hi…(searching for her name) Willa.

Chorus/Teenage Willa: May I speak to you?

Justin: (To Willa) Why would you ask such a silly question? We were already speaking!

Willa: Shhh. Let us talk! I mean, let teenage us talk!

Chorus/Teenage Justin: …Yes?

Chorus/Teenage Willa: I would very much like to be your friend.

Justin: (To Willa) We were about to end junior year. The timing, much like you, was odd.  

Willa: I know, right? And I knew it then, too.

Chorus/Teenage Willa: I know we don’t have unlimited time.

Willa: See? I’m a genius!

Justin: Yeah yeah, be quiet. Let yourself talk.

Chorus/Teenage Willa: I was thinking…can we please spend the summer getting to know each other? And also, I’m not asking you out.

Justin: Were you reading my mind?

Willa: Sort of. I was reading your face. I’m a visual artist. That which makes me crazy also makes me psychic.

Justin: This is getting confusing, this memory within a memory. I’m no longer sure to whom it belongs. Which one of us is speaking?

Willa: Oh. Right. (To audience) He wrote down his number and gave it to me.

Chorus/Teenage Justin: I’m pretty busy this summer. But we can hang out a few times, sure.

Justin: I thought, maybe she won’t pursue this. Maybe this will just be one of those things that are hinted at, but ultimately come to nothing.

Willa: Yeah right. As if I wouldn’t spend the next decade-plus pursuing you….

Justin: Pursuing me…

Chorus/Teenage Willa: Pursuing….

Chorus/Teenage Justin: Me…

Willa: But your friendship only, nothing more than that. “Nothing more than that,” what a silly phrase, as if friendship alone weren’t worth the world entire.

Justin: And now I’m here. At your art show.

Willa: Yes, and I’m glowing. For so many reasons. (pause) No, not that. Although I suppose I am pregnant in a way….pregnant with the origins of creation.

Justin: Before you go on one of your artsy abstract meta-rants…

Willa: (to audience) Oh man, he knows me so well!

Justin: Let’s center ourselves. At your art show—which my wife made me attend—could you tell how guilty I felt?

Willa: No, I figured you were just uncomfortable for the usual reasons. Unless I’m engaged or married to you, I tend to have that effect of men. (To Chorus/Husband) I love you, Baby! Thanks for putting up with me!

Chorus/Husband: Don’t mention it.

Justin: It wasn’t you. I mean it was, but…I should have invited you to my wedding. I should have sent you a picture of Madelyn before she was a year old.

Willa: I’m not angry. I love you. I’m so glad you’re here. Listen to me, I, I, I, it’s all about me, god, artists are insufferable. Oooh, wine!

Justin: (To audience) And that’s when things begin to get weird.

Willa: “Begin to”…I’m sorry, are we still sharing the same memory?

Justin: Go away.

Willa: What?

Justin: You aren’t here for this. You and your husband—

Willa: Fiancé, at this point.

Justin: You and Theodor are in the corner drinking wine and having some dorky conversation at this point.

Willa: …Yup, that sounds like my relationship. Excuse me. (Goes to Husband/Chorus)

(Amelia enters)

Amelia:  Justin?

Justin: Yes, how did you know? Are all the people at this art show obsessed me with me? (to audience) I don’t think I said that last part aloud. I really, really hope I didn’t.

Amelia: I recognized you from Willa’s portrait of you. It’s iconic, in its own right. One of her best, I would say.

Justin: Oh. Right. (To audience) Well good, then. That’s only mildly unsettling. (To Amelia) And your name is?

Amelia: Amelia Valeri.

Justin: I’ve heard of you.

(To audience)

Willa’s best friend from college. I’ve heard way too much about Amelia. And seeing her now, for the first time, there’s nothing wrong with this woman. But it was disconcerting to see, in person, someone Willa described as a saint, an angel, a goddess, her soul mate. I never imagined Amelia having actual human hair. It’s…shiny.  

(To Amelia)

Don’t you and Willa sometimes chastely kiss? How could anyone kiss you and keep it chaste? You’re carnality embodied.  And yet you’re…Metaphysically ethereal? Your sweat must be nectar. But harder, human. Flesh against mine is alchemy, branch against branch, we’ll make fire.

(To Willa)

Great, now I’m starting to sound like you.

Willa: Sorry.

Justin: (To audience)

No. I’m only ethereally attracted to Amelia. That’s all. She’s a painting I’m looking at too hard and my focus gets distorted. It has nothing to do with sex, I mean gender, I mean the sexuality of our genders. God, what is this, my first ever epileptic seizure?

Willa: They don’t make you so articulate.

Justin: Go back to talking to your husband.

Willa: You’re the boss. It’s only my art showing, but whatever.

Justin: Let me kiss you. Just once. Ten feet away from Willa, from her paintings, the hors d’oeuvres, and most importantly, miles away from my wife and daughter, in this safe space that can never actually exist.

Amelia: Sure, whatever, I’m like a gin and tonic past finding this weird. (They kiss, passionately)

Justin: Um….I have to go now. Willa, can you take over for awhile?

Willa: Dude, no problem, I got this.

Justin steps back into the Chorus area. Willa replaces him.

Willa: So?

Amelia: So what?

Willa: Justin! I can’t believe he came!

Amelia: Oh. Him.

Willa: Yeah. It’s seriously, I just, it’s, you know, it’s a dream come true, you two meeting.

Amelia: What a boring dream. Aim higher. Really, Willa, you have no ambition.

Willa: ….You know this is my art show, right? In New York? (pause) City?

Amelia: Certainly I do. I helped you pick the wine. Speaking of which….

(she walks back to the chorus)

Willa: (calling after her, desperately) I love you, Amelia!

(To audience) I did. And I do. There is no beginning of the end. The end has many beginnings. In hindsight, that might have been one of them. Either way, even now, it stings.

Justin: (Joining her)

I know, Willa. God. I know. (They embrace)

Willa:  (still in his arms) You did not embrace me then. Not until my wedding.

Justin: I couldn’t. I was too self-conscious about the erection I’m not entirely sure I had. Bad enough as a metaphor, but god forbid you’d think it was for you.

Willa: I wouldn’t have. I knew better than that. (pause) Why didn’t you tell me?

Justin: Tell you?

Willa: That you were in love with Amelia? After knowing her a minute? It took me a full five minutes to fall so deeply in love with her. I’m impressed with how quickly you caught on.

Justin: (horrified and impressed) My god, how did you…

Willa: Since we were sixteen or seventeen, whenever we’re in the same room, I’m aware of your motion. Attuned to your heartbeat, almost.

Justin: Oh. That’s not at all disturbing.

Willa: I know, right? Sorry. I feel your emotions but I’m still oblivious to sarcasm.

Pause

Justin: I didn’t tell you, because I guess I knew how happy you’d be. And I wasn’t…ready for intimacy on that level. Not with you.

Willa: I get it, Justin. I really do. (To Justin and audience) There is an odd, distinct sorrow that accompanies the best day of your life.

My two greatest non-sexual muses, one from high school, one from college, under the same roof in a room filled with art! My art! That’ll scratch the ego’s g spot.

Chorus/Husband: (Jokingly, deadpan) You know I’m standing right here.

Willa: Quiet Theodor, being my husband doesn’t give you the right to critique my inner monologue.

Chorus/Husband: Oh my sweet baby. Read the fine print.

Willa: OK moving on. Anyway, there’s a paradox to the best day of your life. It casts a shadow, it haunts you. My wedding, in contrast to my first showing, was painted in pastels. Lovely, of course, but the climax had passed.

(Lights change slightly. Chorus and Amelia fade into background.)

Justin: I never kissed Amelia. I called my wife instead. I listened to my daughter breathe, and in doing so remembered to breathe myself.

Willa: When you came to my wedding, did you think Amelia would be there?

Justin: I did not for a moment doubt it.

Willa: Our Amelia was alive when I took my vows. She had six months left before…well, before things got bad.

Justin: Do you think that we’re glamorizing her?

Willa: Oh, certainly. That’s what living people do.

Justin: Why do I love a woman I met once, briefly? In what world does that make sense?

Willa: I’m an artist, don’t ask me for logic.

Justin: I didn’t know her.

Willa: Did you cheat on your wife?

Justin: No, and now I never will. I mean…I never would have…Fuck me, life is complicated!

Willa: Aw, baby, I’ve been saying that for years.

Justin: Did you just call me baby?

Willa: Yes, but I meant it non-sexually. I call everybody baby, or sugarcrotch, don’t overthink it. Kidding.

Justin: (pause) Yeah so life is complicated. I love my wife, but the memory of kissing my friend’s friend haunts and warms me as if it were real.

Willa: But we are friends. And you came to my wedding. And my showing.

Justin: That part, yes. That part is real.

Willa: And at the day of my showing, my happiest day….

Justin: I remember where all your art was on the wall…my visual memory’s not usually so precise…

Willa: I clasped your hand between mine and said….

Justin: Willa. It took me almost a decade to be comfortable saying your name.

Willa: …Justin.

Justin: I love my wife, my daughter, your dead friend, and you, in that order…

Willa: Justin! (Implied: Be quiet!)

Justin: What?

Willa: (Holding his hand) Thank you for coming.

END

Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Her poems, plays, short stories, philosophical essays, paintings, drawings and photographs have been published both online and in print. Publications include Spinozablue, Third Wednesday Magazine, [Alternate Route], Paddler Press, Verse-Virtual, Macrame Literary Journal, Sublunary Review, Quail Bell Magazine, Superpresent, Clockwise Cat, Ranger Magazine, Fowl Feathered Review, The Ravens Perch, 10 By 10 Flash, Waffle Fried, House of Arcanum, Synchronized Chaos, Well Read Magazine, Hidden Peak Press, Third Street Review, and Litbop.  @alainaheidelberger on Instagram. Playwright’s note: Memory show was first produced at Manhattan Repertory Theatre, January 2016. It starred Alaina Hammond as Willa, Michael Bordwell as Justin, London Griffith as Amelia/Female Chorus, and Dave Stishan as Male Chorus.

Playwright’s note: Memory show was first produced at Manhattan Repertory Theatre, January 2016. It starred Alaina Hammond as Willa, Michael Bordwell as Justin, London Griffith as Amelia/Female Chorus, and Dave Stishan as Male Chorus.

With the 1979 album “Bela Lugosi’s Dead,” British rock band Bauhaus thrust themselves firmly into the goth-rock scene. The anthology “White on White,” edited by horror writer Alex S. Johnson and released nearly 50 years after Bauhaus came together, pays homage to the spirit of the band and the broader Gothic sensibility. 

“White on White” contains a mixture of poetry and prose in various styles and genres. Writers from different national backgrounds and literary traditions, including several whose work has been translated into English, contribute to a mashup of different sensibilities. Some poetry addresses the experience of listening to Bauhaus and plays off of song titles, others are more impressionistic takes on the band’s themes and aesthetic. 

Common threads include shaky and fluid personal identity. In one piece, just the touch of pills on the ground obliterates and transforms a character and his dog, a young woman loses herself in her romantic obsession with a strange pale man and his diary, a man steals another’s train ticket and finds the other man’s face staring back at him through a mirror. Many characters live on the margins of their world, people who wouldn’t normally serve as main protagonists. One narrator is a groundskeeper on a historical estate of immortals, another is a lovelorn woman in her forties seeking oblivion and companionship in goth clubs, yet another has her last wishes disrespected on the day of her funeral.

The anthology probes power dynamics and the corruption that can come with extreme power imbalances. In one story, a woman with a gift for healing helps many, then carries out destruction after becoming world famous. In another, a clever grad student turns a spelunking expedition into spooky revenge on a professor who has exploited and discarded a string of women. The uncanny and supernatural sometimes become means for achieving justice, other realms where those who have been excluded or wronged can defend themselves. We see a murdered woman’s son, reincarnated through biotechnology, poetically avenging his mother, and a murderer whose goth-girl love interest sets him up to be arrested. One man seeks to destroy his own kind after realizing that he is something much scarier than the drug dealers and criminals who surround him, hoping to eliminate the threat he poses to innocent humans. 

“White on White” takes place in a variety of settings. Inspired by Bauhaus’ music and the 1939 Dracula actor Bela Lugosi, we see a selection of tales within goth clubs and old buildings at night where vampires tend to lurk. Other pieces, though, are set within a biotech future where guitars and bedrooms come alive, in urban settings such as Little Italy, within caves rumored to hold Indiana Jones-style ancient relics, and an ordinary apartment building where a young female academic befriends an elderly gentleman with an active mind and tenuous grasp on reality. 

These pieces blur the boundaries between the past and the present. People’s pasts catch up to them, people forget and remember who they truly are. History, memory, and decay show up as continual motifs: there’s a whole town of empty, dilapidated buildings, a dis-used broadcast tower in the midst of a shiny new city, and a radio station where a late night DJ plays Bauhaus and encounters the ghost of a guest murdered long ago in that room. 

We see the interplay of past and present most clearly in a story near the end of “White on White,” where an aging actor dreams up the final performance of his career in a theater that’s now unused and decrepit. From his chair in his senior care home, this experience allows him to look back over his entire life and find meaning in all of his memories. He achieves his lifelong dream of acting where he saw his first old silent movie with his parents. 

The Goth aesthetic is often linked with death in people’s minds, but this story is a celebration of life, all the more poignant by the protagonist’s acknowledging his mortality. This entire anthology embraces the grotesque, the marginal, the deathly, the traumatic, and the just plain weird with openness and curiosity. By doing this, the writers and curator point to an expansive world where there’s room for all sorts of people and where we can look beyond our fears and our pasts to fully welcome ourselves and each other.

White on White: A Literary Tribute to Bauhaus is available at your local bookstore through Bookshop.org.

It includes original pieces by such rock stars as Kari Lee Krome (The Runaways), Athan Maroulis (Spahn Ranch), Tara Vanflower (Lycia, Type O Negative), pieces by Bram Stoker Award-winning authors John Palisano and John Shirley (who also wrote The Crow screenplay and songs for Blue Oyster Cult), former Swans co-leader Jarboe, Caitlin R. Kiernan (two-time World Fantasy and Bram Stoker Award-winning author, Nebula award finalist), with a foreword by Poppy Z. Brite, the iconic author of Exquisite Corpse, and much more. The anthology is endorsed by David J. Haskins, the founding member of Bauhaus and Love and Rockets and writer of the song “Bela Lugosi’s Dead”; Haskins is also a Nocturnicon Books contributing author.

i watch as your bright lights pollute the air

engulfing the sky in exhaustive energy that

stings my eyes, burning holes into my

pupils while searing your initials onto my

face. you believe i am yours to control,

yours to entirely claim, and never once

has my body willingly let itself into yours.

i can feel you coming down the hall, your

footsteps rattling inside my veins, and

while my soul fights for a breath free 

from you, my feet never take me away.

why are you so relentless? why do you

fight to keep me by your side? there is

no continuity between us, no bonds

sealing us together as one. your autonomy

over me is fabricated, as it only exists

within the confines of your mind. all i

can ever beg for is that when i finally

leave your thoughts, i hope i never

linger within the depths of your brain.

Forgotten spring

The queen loved the spring from childhood. The rustling of the leaves, the vibration of the roses, was astonishing to her. The spring seemed to bring new life, new hopes, and dreams.

But then years passed … The life of the princess has changed. She married, took on daily worries, responsibilities, moved away from childhood. Now she did not notice the spring coming. There was no time to observe the raindrops from the window. Every day, the day of worries would pass the tremors, and it seemed to missing something in her heart.

One day when she was walking along the road, she felt that the soft spring was beating her breeze. She stopped for a moment. The trees were overwhelmed by gusts, moving the birds and the air. Her heart remembered those pure sensations a few years ago.

In no hurry, the princess went to the most loved garden in her childhood. She sat there and first took time for herself. The leaves were rich and the smell of flowers filled the air. The princess felt as if she had lost herself and found herself again.

That day she realized: Life is not just a bunch of worries. Sometimes you have to stop and feel spring. Because every season is the priceless gift of life, every moment.

Bekmirzayeva Aziza Rustam daughter was born on May 10, 2005 in Khatirchi district of Navoi region. It is the 2nd year student of the Samarkand Institute of Agroinovations and Research, which is interested in science and creativity. Continues to study the way to get to education and personal development and to be a leading specialist in their field. To date, they have more than 10 certificates and are working in various fields.

Fadwa Attia from Egypt writes about play (Fares reveals the hidden) Mohamed Sobhi’s directorial vision, from the very first scene, is presented by Sobhi using the technique of merging the cinema screen with theatrical performance, using footage from the character of Faris Faris Balajwad in the series, which he played years ago, to confirm a specific identity at the beginning of the play.

He takes us back to the very first scene of that, enthusiastically entering the scenes of that train—the train that expresses the history and identity of a nation, and the Al-Sadawi family, who came from different places for the inheritance and do not know each other—and a discussion about the treasure in the scene that follows, in an enjoyable transition between Cairo Station and the scene of the apartment in which they will live, which is the family home, conveying to us the concerns of the Egyptian household, from free education and its concerns to Afrocentricity, which is trying to steal the identity of the ancient Egyptians, to the conscientious censorship of our lives, to artificial crying, globalization, technology, and the mobile phone that has torn the Egyptian family apart.

All of this is done in successive scenes in the first act as they search for the treasure amidst a succession of slogans, songs, lighting, and sets, and an attempt to decipher the treasure between the two heroes of the play, Mohamed Sobhi and Wafaa Sadek. By inviting the 22 heirs of Hafez Naguib to search for the treasure of their great patriotic grandfather, the land usurped by Maysoun, Mudalla Ghazi. These heirs include traitors, agents, pessimists, frustrated opportunists, superficial and greedy individuals. They resorted to deception until they were burdened with debts in their quest to fulfill the terms of the requirements of the rulers of Zion to the letter, ending with their dispersal, despairing and hopeless, due to their lack of true awareness of what was being plotted against them.

A play by the Fares Studio troupe, Uncovering the Hidden. This is the Actor’s Studio band, founded by the star Mohamed Sobhi in the eighties. With the team spirit, expressing the dreams of young people today, raising the slogan of awareness of the Palestinian cause. These are the names of the actors and actresses.

This play revolves around the events of a knight’s play, which reveals the hidden, set against a melodramatic background. A true artistic, comedic, musical, and theatrical show, presented by the Actor’s Studio troupe, written and directed by Mohamed Sobhy, with Ayman Fatia participating in the book, decor by Mohamed El-Gharbawy, lyrics by Abdullah Hassan, music by Sherif Hamdan, and starring: Mohamed Sobhy (Fares), Wafa Sadek (Baheya), Kamal Attia (Dahab), Rehab Hussein (Maison), Angelica Ayman (Nidal), Laila Fawzy (Souad), Dalida (Shaimaa), Mustafa Youssef (Ghazy), Mohamed Shawky (Shawky), Lamia Orabi (Abla), Dalia Nabil (Malak), Michael William (Michael William, Daqdaq), Abou Heiba ​​(Sand), Helmy Galal (Aref the lawyer), Mohamed Abdel Moaty (Mukhtar), Alaa Fouad (Kamal), Khaled Mohamed (the final man), Gamal Abdel Nasser(Sadon), Walid Hany, James: Mahmoud El-Sherif (Rahma), Remasib (Sara), Lamar Awad (Hanin), Bilal Mohamed (Seif).

The play consists of two acts, each with seven scenes, and achieves harmony in all elements between the various sets and theatrical scenery, from the station to the apartment to the palace to the grounds. The smooth and effortless performance, the spirit of a loving team, the various topics including the identity of the homeland, the Palestinian cause, the golden billion, education issues, and others, and the emphasis on “We are all one, Muslim and Christian, hand in hand.”

The music, theatrical lighting, and the integrated visual image with integrated scenography, in addition to the appropriate clothing for each actor and actress, the songs and performance in singing as well, with a new return to emphasize identity, homeland, and belonging, and a reminder of the integration of cinematic presentation with theater, by integrating the character of Fares, who appeared to us years ago in the series “Fares without a Horse,” so that the prologue at the beginning of the play became the first scene that attracted the audience. As for the children, he presented them in the impact of technology and artificial intelligence on their lives, bringing us to our lives and what is in them, so that we can stand with ourselves, fully aware of the external threats from Israel to the challenges within our daily lives.

Thus, “Fares Uncovers the Hidden” is a historical show that displays the past, present, and future in the best play presented at the level of public and private sector theater, to sit on the throne of the summit in terms of occupying first place compared to shows that did not achieve the same artistic and moral value, achieving the difficult equation in a complete artistic show. The play “Fares Uncovers the Hidden” occupied first.

Fadwa Attia is a writer, painter and photographer from Egypt.

Walking in the realm of Poetry and Art,

lonely am I

Bound by Poetry and Art,

I submit to their call, unconditional.

Leaving my job behind, Poetry I pursue,

Wealth I cast aside,

My soul a gentle wind, invisible,

Drifting through the night’s tide.

My heart stirs without reason,

Beats faster, again and again.

What causes this unrest,

I cannot discern.

Some nights, sleep eludes me,

Sometimes.

Dreaming of strange people and places.

Yet the meaning remains shrouded in mist.

My stomach hurts right after writing the title. I’ve avoided this grief as it’s so real that it begins to hurt physically. But somewhere Tessa knows how I feel. She was my dog, but also my friend. We spent years walking the forests, its verdant valleys and then sunny summits, also surveying streams and more open, pastoral places. And we went in all seasons, unafraid and confident. 

In time, the old girl slowed down a bit, and many of her whiskers had turned grey. I watched her and she watched me, maybe knowing that time had begun to call her to a further, unknown destiny. But we carried on. One day she became sick, and got better for a while, but then became ill again. The vet said she had cancer. She had thrown up and eliminated a lot of blood, and was in pain. The more humane action at that point was to put her down, to let her go, and that’s what occurred. I was there with her the whole time and held her, assured her. 

I think I helped her in those last moments and that they were with as little pain as possible. But what or where is this assurance afterwards against grief for myself? It is for me like a light rain coat or thin sweater in minus 20 degree Celsius winter weather. 

Therefore, it’s no assurance or insurance whatsoever. 

I am caught in the storm.  

And, as the storm brags its vexatious winds, bullying, and as those winds blow cold snow upon my already troubled countenance, a demeanour of frustration and withdrawal and plain stupid pain, I try and think of better days…

It was warm when I retrieved her from a small northern rescue outfit. An old woman and man, obviously good souls, ran the shelter which consisted of a large fenced area in back of their property. They relied on donations for almost everything and had an agreement with vets in training somewhere to perform necessary operations to prevent the dogs from being taken by breeders. They were the n the middle of an almost God forsaken climate of mosquitoes though, for there was a series of bogs or swamps close by that allowed many more mosquitoes to breed than a regular summer place even rural. 

That’s why Tessa always not only disliked mosquitoes like anyone or any animal would, she absolutely abhorred them and it was noticeable if one or a fly even went near her. 

I’d asked to go in the cage where dogs were barking, especially Tessa. The old caretaker, grey hair disheveled, clothing torn through age and hard work, and unrepaired in places, had said, ‘If you want. Go ahead. Nobody has asked to do that before.’ I went in and Tessa barked at me nonstop. But I could see she was not an aggressive soul but rather a scared soul. 

When it was time to travel home she lay in the van just in the middle a bit behind me and stopped barking. Looking up at me I could see her saying to the universe at that time something akin to, ‘Oh. He is the one. He has come to rescue me and bring me to a forever home. He is not a threat and I can relax a bit now.’

Not bad Tessa. That day I took you out of the humid mosquito infested world and we left with air conditioning and a water bowl you’d not have share. 

In life she could never completely relax, for God knows what trauma or abandonment Tessa endured in the beginning of this life. But for her, she came a long way through the years and was comfortable as possible. 

They say not to use cliches, but who are they exactly at the end of the day and what do they know? Other than a spelling mistake or some real structural error, I was never too concerned with what some stranger, or school of thought, had to say.

Everyone is an expert, aren’t they?

Tessa had a good run, maybe a great run all things considered. 

I did the best I could, each and every day. 

And, most importantly, Tessa is in a better place now. 

As for the grief, my stomach still hurts, and though it’s uncomfortable I’m not afraid. 

——