There are secrets hidden in his panegyric, no one the wiser to his cloaked praise. The large crowd in attendance was unaware of unmentionable things left undisclosed for the institution’s sake. And if they were ever to find out the monster they were applauding right now, everything would crumble. Not only would this reputable* organization be in ruins, but it’d leave a decrepit taste in the mouths of those willing to be charitable enough to raise the less fortunate out of their despair. Possibly shaking the foundations of other noble** institutions everywhere.
As many of you know, I’m traveling again. This time, I’m in Burnsville, NC, with my dear friend Gail Leadenham. It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other, and I’m so happy to spend this time with her in the backdrop of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
She and I decided to participate in this week’s Wordle. I hope you enjoy my weekly contribution as well as hers. It was fun to see how we would interpret the prompt words. It was interesting how we both went dark and sad. We are so morose! Also, we agreed that the titles for both pieces should be the same, only the stories are a bit different.
I wake to darkness, my buried secrets spilling out of me like vomit, making me feel wretched and ill. I weep inconsolably with regret and fiery anger. An unbearable, vast loneliness silently creeps into my psyche, rendering me unable to speak—like drowning in an invisible river. What a novel way to leave this world (insert sarcasm here, I think to myself, with a smile)—a wannabe Virginia Woolf not wanting to face reality. How dramatic. But yet, a plan takes shape. My demise will be forthcoming, and probably sooner than I’d anticipated. I ache with an intense pain being so alone.
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Watercolor by Gail Leadenham
On Death’s Door
The wake of my momma was filled with the darkness of the secrets kept hidden in the vast mystery of her death. Silently, I was unable to navigate the river of questions that could fill a novel. It was as though my world couldn’t face the ache of being alone. Momma could enter a disparaged room and, within minutes, bring a smile to everyone’s lips. But now, that once vibrant 91-year-old woman had clearly been neglected. I can still visualize my sweet momma’s face in a final death grip, eyes and mouth wide open in the recesses of my mind.
I Write Her 