Gaillard Auditorium’s main exhibit hall was a bright riot of sound and fabric: clothing, dishes, books, bags, posters, furniture. I browsed the eclectic and “gently used” offerings of the Charleston Junior League’s annual Whale of a Sale and walked cautiously amid stern-faced, sensibly dressed women moving in for the kill. One picked up a blue and yellow bedspread, wrinkled her nose in distaste, and sauntered on down the pile toward slipcovers and placemats. Another frowned over a mismatched set of china before scooping the plates into her arms and scurrying towards checkout.
Rounding a nearby pile of furniture and dishes, their sharp edges akimbo, I was confronted by a sea of white and cream-colored satin with flounced skirts and sparkling appliqué. The wedding dress section. A preppy brunette Junior Leaguer clad in matching red t-shirt and headband atop pressed khakis lovingly sorted the gowns, her left ring finger ablaze in a wreath of diamonds. Big diamonds. Smack dab in my ground zero of dread, I swallowed the waves of nausea slithering through my gut and bravely but coldly surveyed yards of duchesse silk and scalloped seed pearl beading. Maintaining my game face, I imagined the ecstatically married wives who charitably decided to part with their treasured gowns for “just a touch more room” in their blissfully shared conjugal closets.
My own wedding dress hung limp and crumpled in a tiny, unshared closet, with my short, miserable marriage slumped on the floor beneath it. The swath of icy silk with elegantly ruched waist and crystal-staggered, silver-threaded bodice was stunning, and yet I couldn’t look at it without the desire to gag bubbling up in my throat. The nine months of my nuptials had been spectacular only in their unhappiness.
The night of my reception, pausing to kiss my mother goodbye just before we drove away, my new husband honking the car horn as if he couldn’t wait to escape. The honeymoon, sunning on the deck of the cruise ship alone. Home at the apartment months later, the bedroom door, our bedroom door, locked hard against my grasp as I crumpled against the frame, my breath knocked out.
Five months down, seven to go: I was now almost halfway through the required one year of separation preceding divorce. Just midway through my jail term, the last thing in the world I could stomach was another wedding dress. What to do with the one I have? Squaring my jaw, I marched toward shoes and handbags. Shoes and handbags, after all, were safe, practical, size-constant, marriage neutral, and a real bargain at a buck a pop.
The flurry of movement caught my attention. The perky brunette was posting a sign like a white surrender flag on top of the foremost rack of dresses. The big black letters screamed out: ALL GOWNS $10.00. I buckled under the blow and sucked in my breath, drawn back by the tractor beam of fabric before reason kicked in: how could I even possibly consider a second dress when I was barely out of the first?
Heavy cream satin floating on the hanger. Miles of seed pearls affixed by a delicate hand in a chorus of flowers with tiny amber crystal centers. Beaded vines curving down a fluted skirt. The gentle bend of the strapless bodice, a simple, button-less back. A designer gown, the $920.00 price tag bobbing on the bodice.
How could I? How could I not?
Suddenly, it was less about The Dress. It was more about me. Hope and resignation fighting on a scale. A flicker of defiance against the smothering ash of guilt. My choice stretched out like an elaborately stitched alabaster train: bitterness, anger, crushing depression? Or faith, forgiveness, and courage? This gown was not to sweep me away in waves of ivory-towered illusion, but to lift my warrior soul back into the turret, fierce and fearless. To show that such a thing was still possible.
The bubbly brunette with the rock on her left hand cheerfully bagged the gown. I didn’t even try it on. I didn’t need to: so much of this second gown fit already.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Meta-Text
The list of 10 I posted to the general blog sums it up pretty well, but going more in depth with my own pieces, I specifically learned that I have a tendency to overwrite. My impulse for variety goes into overdrive (I blame the children's book Grover Visits the Everything in the World Museum, but that's another story) at times and my writing gets dragged down.
I also learned that I must ration my use of adverbs and adjectives, which at times is heavy-handed. Thank you, Stephen King. I am now at least aware of the dependency and will not go cold turkey, but will limit my usage in the future.
I learned that writing is DIFFICULT - it cuts to the bone, to quote a cliche. But most wonderfully I learned that I LOVE this work. I can sit for hours and get lost in it - like a wonderful old friend.
I learned that my writing is rich in sensory detail, and it sometimes sounds good.
I learned that writing and editing are like breathing, sometimes easy, sometimes labored, always amazing.
I learned that I am grateful, alive, and open. I need to watch and listen.
Finally, I learned that if the writing doesn't pan out, I can always take my Annie Dillard imitation on the road. Oh, the possibilities...
THANK YOU AMY AND MARY ALICE. This is the most amazing writing class experience I ever had. Every day was a gift, every moment a joy.
THANK YOU TO THE CLASS. You are all amazing individuals, and I leave so enriched.
I also learned that I must ration my use of adverbs and adjectives, which at times is heavy-handed. Thank you, Stephen King. I am now at least aware of the dependency and will not go cold turkey, but will limit my usage in the future.
I learned that writing is DIFFICULT - it cuts to the bone, to quote a cliche. But most wonderfully I learned that I LOVE this work. I can sit for hours and get lost in it - like a wonderful old friend.
I learned that my writing is rich in sensory detail, and it sometimes sounds good.
I learned that writing and editing are like breathing, sometimes easy, sometimes labored, always amazing.
I learned that I am grateful, alive, and open. I need to watch and listen.
Finally, I learned that if the writing doesn't pan out, I can always take my Annie Dillard imitation on the road. Oh, the possibilities...
THANK YOU AMY AND MARY ALICE. This is the most amazing writing class experience I ever had. Every day was a gift, every moment a joy.
THANK YOU TO THE CLASS. You are all amazing individuals, and I leave so enriched.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Change of A Dress, Partially Completed
Gaillard Auditorium’s main exhibit hall was a bright riot of sound and fabric. I browsed the eclectic and “gently used” offerings of the Charleston Junior League’s annual Whale of a Sale and moved cautiously around stern-faced, sensibly dressed women who looked like they meant business. One picked up a blue and yellow bedspread, wrinkled her already-upturned nose in distaste, and sauntered on down the pile toward slipcovers and placemats.
Rounding a nearby pile of furniture and dishes, sharp edges akimbo, I was confronted with a sea of white and cream-colored satin with flounced skirts and sparkling appliqué: the wedding dress section. Smack dab in my ground zero of dread, I swallowed the waves of nausea slithering through my gut and bravely but coldly surveyed yards of duchesse silk and scalloped seed pearl beading. Maintaining my game face, I imagined the happily married and beaming wives who charitably decided to part with their treasured gowns for “just a touch more room” in their blissfully shared conjugal closets.
My own wedding dress hung limp and crumpled in a tiny, unshared closet, with my short, miserable marriage slumped on the floor beneath it. The ice-white swath of silk with elegantly ruched waist and delicate vine beading laced with silver crystals was stunning, and yet I couldn’t look at it without the desire to retch bubbling up in my throat. The nine months of my nuptials had been spectacular only in their unhappiness. The night of my reception, just before driving away, my new husband honking the car horn as if he couldn't wait to escape from my family, the flowers, the briefly golden glow of candlelight. The honeymoon, sunning on the deck of the cruise ship alone. The bedroom door, our bedroom door, locked hard against my grasp as I slumped against the frame, my breath knocked out.
Five months down, seven to go: I was now almost halfway through the required one year of separation preceding divorce. Barely midway through my jail term, the last thing in the universe I could stomach was another wedding dress. I squared my jaw and continued the march toward shoes and handbags. Shoes and handbags, after all, were safe, practical, size-constant, marriage neutral, and a real bargain at a buck a pop.
A flurry of movement caught my eye as I turned to leave the bridal section in my dust. A perky cashmere-clad Junior Leaguer was posting a sign like a white surrender flag atop the foremost rack. The big black letters screamed out: ALL GOWNS $10.00. I buckled under the blow and sucked in my breath, drawn back by the tractor beam of fabric before reason kicked in: how could I even possibly consider a second dress when I was barely out of the first?
It hung in front of me. DESCRIPTION OF DRESS TO BE ADDED
Suddenly, it was less about The Dress. It was more about me. Hope and resignation fighting on a scale. A flicker of defiance against the smothering ash of guilt. My choice stretched out like an elaborately stitched alabaster train: bitterness, anger, crushing depression? Or faith, forgiveness, and courage? This gown was not to sweep me away in waves of ivory-towered illusion, but to lift my warrior soul back into the turret, fierce and fearless. To show that such a thing was still possible.
The bubbly brunette with the rock on her left hand bagged the gown. I didn’t even try it on. I didn’t need to: so much of this second gown fit already.
Rounding a nearby pile of furniture and dishes, sharp edges akimbo, I was confronted with a sea of white and cream-colored satin with flounced skirts and sparkling appliqué: the wedding dress section. Smack dab in my ground zero of dread, I swallowed the waves of nausea slithering through my gut and bravely but coldly surveyed yards of duchesse silk and scalloped seed pearl beading. Maintaining my game face, I imagined the happily married and beaming wives who charitably decided to part with their treasured gowns for “just a touch more room” in their blissfully shared conjugal closets.
My own wedding dress hung limp and crumpled in a tiny, unshared closet, with my short, miserable marriage slumped on the floor beneath it. The ice-white swath of silk with elegantly ruched waist and delicate vine beading laced with silver crystals was stunning, and yet I couldn’t look at it without the desire to retch bubbling up in my throat. The nine months of my nuptials had been spectacular only in their unhappiness. The night of my reception, just before driving away, my new husband honking the car horn as if he couldn't wait to escape from my family, the flowers, the briefly golden glow of candlelight. The honeymoon, sunning on the deck of the cruise ship alone. The bedroom door, our bedroom door, locked hard against my grasp as I slumped against the frame, my breath knocked out.
Five months down, seven to go: I was now almost halfway through the required one year of separation preceding divorce. Barely midway through my jail term, the last thing in the universe I could stomach was another wedding dress. I squared my jaw and continued the march toward shoes and handbags. Shoes and handbags, after all, were safe, practical, size-constant, marriage neutral, and a real bargain at a buck a pop.
A flurry of movement caught my eye as I turned to leave the bridal section in my dust. A perky cashmere-clad Junior Leaguer was posting a sign like a white surrender flag atop the foremost rack. The big black letters screamed out: ALL GOWNS $10.00. I buckled under the blow and sucked in my breath, drawn back by the tractor beam of fabric before reason kicked in: how could I even possibly consider a second dress when I was barely out of the first?
It hung in front of me. DESCRIPTION OF DRESS TO BE ADDED
Suddenly, it was less about The Dress. It was more about me. Hope and resignation fighting on a scale. A flicker of defiance against the smothering ash of guilt. My choice stretched out like an elaborately stitched alabaster train: bitterness, anger, crushing depression? Or faith, forgiveness, and courage? This gown was not to sweep me away in waves of ivory-towered illusion, but to lift my warrior soul back into the turret, fierce and fearless. To show that such a thing was still possible.
The bubbly brunette with the rock on her left hand bagged the gown. I didn’t even try it on. I didn’t need to: so much of this second gown fit already.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Two Limes and a Bracelet Revision
The stables were tucked into the rough blanket of Puerto Plata’s short, stony foothills and scrub-brush fields. I jumped out of the van as soon as it lurched to a stop and slid down the dry, pebbly incline to the corral. My eyes scanned the horses tethered to the fence, but did not see Nuevo, the tall bay horse I rode last summer.
The sound of hoofbeats from the barn peppered the air as limes dot a tree. I turned and Miguel led Nuevo out toward me. I ran forward, embracing the horse and the man whom I met the previous June. He tossed Nuevo’s lead rope over and boosted me into the saddle. The pungent warmth of horse hide, saddle leather, and sun-baked dirt washed over me as Nuevo circled the corral, his black mane furling in the breeze.
Not much at the stable had changed in a year in accord with the notion of “Dominican Time,” a cultural phenomenon dictating that “in ten minutes” becomes “in two hours” as easily as hola slides from the smiling mouths of natives. On the trail ride, Nuevo was still friendly, patient, and wise. Mike, the manager of the ranch, told the same amusing yet deprecating jokes better stated by a local.
“Dominican Burger King,” he deadpanned, jerking his chin at the huge black cow lumbering over a side pocket of pasture.
Miguel laughed along with us, his smile electrifying a deeply tanned face. He sat with ease on a dark bay, his long legs barely perched in the stirrups as we cantered over rising hills.
“How do you stay so still in the saddle?” I asked, admiration lacing my voice. He turned and met my gaze. A quiet heat flared and smoldered against the lowering sun.
The biggest change was me. The year before, I visited the Dominican Republic just after leaving a horrible marriage, and I was numb with pain. This year’s return trip marked the close of a required one year of separation, and although I had given up on finding love, I felt whole, strong, and ready to begin my long-awaited divorce proceedings back in the States. Maybe this was why the ride was more beautiful, the hills more shades of green, the breeze more tinged with the scent of sunned fruit than I previously remembered. Or maybe it was just the tall, graceful cowboy with eyes the color of coffee who stayed close to Nuevo both up and down the mountain.
After our ride, we climbed up to Café Esmeralda, the tiny ranch bar perched on top of the hill. Its double saloon-style doors opened to reveal a dark wooden bar out of an old Western. He flicked his wrist over two barstools and we sat as he ordered sweet, frosty Cokes tumbled with pungent Dominican Brugal rum. We swallowed our drinks down and smiled at each other. He removed his mud-brown Stetson and placed it on my head, humming lightly to radio music as he adjusted the ties. “Very nice,” he nodded, smiling under a faint curl of mustache.
Then, as the music playing over the radio changed, he stood and held out his arms. “The bachata,” he announced, demonstrating the simple one-two-three-foot up movement. I hopped down, grabbed his warm hands, and mimicked the quick, rhythmic steps. As we moved in synchronicity, he laughed and murmured approvingly. “Very good, my cowgirl.”
After our impromptu dance we left the bar, his arm slung around my shoulders. We walked back to the van. Mike was ready to return me to the resort, and I climbed in. “Dominican taxi,” he intoned, pointing at the well-worn scooter zipping up the dirt road as he pulled out. I collapsed against well-worn seats as Miguel waved, his arm a strong, dark crescent against the waning sun.
The next day, I watched as Miguel prepared the horses, fitting soft saddle pads on broad backs, laying down the leather-tooled saddles, looping sheepskin-lined girth bands below their bellies and then back up through bright silver rings fastened to the saddle seat. He moved with ease, the horses standing patiently as his hands glided over them. He looked up as I greeted Lucy, the scruffy brown and white stable dog, and scooped her into my dusty arms. She snaked her pink tongue over the sweat on my face and cuddled into me. Miguel nodded approvingly. “You are a good person,” he announced. “You have a good heart.”
Tacking up complete, he swung himself lithely into the saddle of a skittish colt called Black. I climbed onto Nuevo and we went galloping off. Halfway through the ride, we stopped at a worn farmhouse to rest, tying our horses loosely to a sturdy tree. Miguel reached strong brown arms into the branches and presented me with a small yet perfect lime. It was warm from the sun, and I inhaled the breathtaking freshness of his gift.
During the return ride, the glaring sun faded and the air promised storm. As we galloped, a damp clod of dirt careened up from Nuevo’s hooves and struck me full in the face. It felt like a slap, and I flinched and shifted, almost falling as my foot slipped from its stirrup. Nuevo spooked through a puddle, and we pulled our horses up. Miguel turned with eyes laughing at my mud-spattered jeans. He swung Black alongside and brushed the dirt off my face with gentle hands, his touch as light and lingering as the warm curtain of rain now softly falling.
On our third and last ride, we ascended the hillside under a warm, full breeze. The sun glazed the valley, and the tall mountain in the distance punctuated an otherwise unbroken horizon. After dismounting at the lime tree, Miguel reached up once again, pulled down a fresh, perfect fruit, and placed it in my palm. We walked in silence with our arms linked until he turned and looked down at me. “I would like you to stay with me,” he said wistfully, willing it into being. “You would have a good life. Happiness everyday.”
I contemplated his words, awash in a forgotten feeling. Although we both knew the improbability of his wish, its quiet and comfortable intent fit like well-worn riding boots. I smiled as we continued walking, and then chose simple words, spoken with truth but without promise.
“I would like that.”
Back at Café Esmeralda, we drank cold beer as I pulled my eyes with longing over sleeping dogs, locals playing poker, horses tethered below in the coral, drowsing in siesta. Then I turned and studied Miguel, his strong brown arms perched on the worn wooden bar, a simple yet sleek silver bracelet adorning his wrist. His dark eyes watched me admire it. Without a word he took the bracelet off and slid it onto my lower arm. It stayed there throughout that last night and the next morning at the airport.
The plane taxied down the runway with a dull, plaintive roar as my eyes filled. I wrapped my fingers around the smooth band so different than the previous one I shed a lifetime ago during an empty and hopeless time. The silver felt warm with promise, and if I placed my fingers just so, a tiny pulse emanated from its center.
The sound of hoofbeats from the barn peppered the air as limes dot a tree. I turned and Miguel led Nuevo out toward me. I ran forward, embracing the horse and the man whom I met the previous June. He tossed Nuevo’s lead rope over and boosted me into the saddle. The pungent warmth of horse hide, saddle leather, and sun-baked dirt washed over me as Nuevo circled the corral, his black mane furling in the breeze.
Not much at the stable had changed in a year in accord with the notion of “Dominican Time,” a cultural phenomenon dictating that “in ten minutes” becomes “in two hours” as easily as hola slides from the smiling mouths of natives. On the trail ride, Nuevo was still friendly, patient, and wise. Mike, the manager of the ranch, told the same amusing yet deprecating jokes better stated by a local.
“Dominican Burger King,” he deadpanned, jerking his chin at the huge black cow lumbering over a side pocket of pasture.
Miguel laughed along with us, his smile electrifying a deeply tanned face. He sat with ease on a dark bay, his long legs barely perched in the stirrups as we cantered over rising hills.
“How do you stay so still in the saddle?” I asked, admiration lacing my voice. He turned and met my gaze. A quiet heat flared and smoldered against the lowering sun.
The biggest change was me. The year before, I visited the Dominican Republic just after leaving a horrible marriage, and I was numb with pain. This year’s return trip marked the close of a required one year of separation, and although I had given up on finding love, I felt whole, strong, and ready to begin my long-awaited divorce proceedings back in the States. Maybe this was why the ride was more beautiful, the hills more shades of green, the breeze more tinged with the scent of sunned fruit than I previously remembered. Or maybe it was just the tall, graceful cowboy with eyes the color of coffee who stayed close to Nuevo both up and down the mountain.
After our ride, we climbed up to Café Esmeralda, the tiny ranch bar perched on top of the hill. Its double saloon-style doors opened to reveal a dark wooden bar out of an old Western. He flicked his wrist over two barstools and we sat as he ordered sweet, frosty Cokes tumbled with pungent Dominican Brugal rum. We swallowed our drinks down and smiled at each other. He removed his mud-brown Stetson and placed it on my head, humming lightly to radio music as he adjusted the ties. “Very nice,” he nodded, smiling under a faint curl of mustache.
Then, as the music playing over the radio changed, he stood and held out his arms. “The bachata,” he announced, demonstrating the simple one-two-three-foot up movement. I hopped down, grabbed his warm hands, and mimicked the quick, rhythmic steps. As we moved in synchronicity, he laughed and murmured approvingly. “Very good, my cowgirl.”
After our impromptu dance we left the bar, his arm slung around my shoulders. We walked back to the van. Mike was ready to return me to the resort, and I climbed in. “Dominican taxi,” he intoned, pointing at the well-worn scooter zipping up the dirt road as he pulled out. I collapsed against well-worn seats as Miguel waved, his arm a strong, dark crescent against the waning sun.
The next day, I watched as Miguel prepared the horses, fitting soft saddle pads on broad backs, laying down the leather-tooled saddles, looping sheepskin-lined girth bands below their bellies and then back up through bright silver rings fastened to the saddle seat. He moved with ease, the horses standing patiently as his hands glided over them. He looked up as I greeted Lucy, the scruffy brown and white stable dog, and scooped her into my dusty arms. She snaked her pink tongue over the sweat on my face and cuddled into me. Miguel nodded approvingly. “You are a good person,” he announced. “You have a good heart.”
Tacking up complete, he swung himself lithely into the saddle of a skittish colt called Black. I climbed onto Nuevo and we went galloping off. Halfway through the ride, we stopped at a worn farmhouse to rest, tying our horses loosely to a sturdy tree. Miguel reached strong brown arms into the branches and presented me with a small yet perfect lime. It was warm from the sun, and I inhaled the breathtaking freshness of his gift.
During the return ride, the glaring sun faded and the air promised storm. As we galloped, a damp clod of dirt careened up from Nuevo’s hooves and struck me full in the face. It felt like a slap, and I flinched and shifted, almost falling as my foot slipped from its stirrup. Nuevo spooked through a puddle, and we pulled our horses up. Miguel turned with eyes laughing at my mud-spattered jeans. He swung Black alongside and brushed the dirt off my face with gentle hands, his touch as light and lingering as the warm curtain of rain now softly falling.
On our third and last ride, we ascended the hillside under a warm, full breeze. The sun glazed the valley, and the tall mountain in the distance punctuated an otherwise unbroken horizon. After dismounting at the lime tree, Miguel reached up once again, pulled down a fresh, perfect fruit, and placed it in my palm. We walked in silence with our arms linked until he turned and looked down at me. “I would like you to stay with me,” he said wistfully, willing it into being. “You would have a good life. Happiness everyday.”
I contemplated his words, awash in a forgotten feeling. Although we both knew the improbability of his wish, its quiet and comfortable intent fit like well-worn riding boots. I smiled as we continued walking, and then chose simple words, spoken with truth but without promise.
“I would like that.”
Back at Café Esmeralda, we drank cold beer as I pulled my eyes with longing over sleeping dogs, locals playing poker, horses tethered below in the coral, drowsing in siesta. Then I turned and studied Miguel, his strong brown arms perched on the worn wooden bar, a simple yet sleek silver bracelet adorning his wrist. His dark eyes watched me admire it. Without a word he took the bracelet off and slid it onto my lower arm. It stayed there throughout that last night and the next morning at the airport.
The plane taxied down the runway with a dull, plaintive roar as my eyes filled. I wrapped my fingers around the smooth band so different than the previous one I shed a lifetime ago during an empty and hopeless time. The silver felt warm with promise, and if I placed my fingers just so, a tiny pulse emanated from its center.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Nuevo Revised
The hot June sun beat down on sparse, grassy hills and the dust-slick ribbon of trail. High above Cofresi Beach in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic, the trail horses gently snuffed and lowered their heads against the glaring light. This was the end of a two-hour ride over the dusty, chartreuse-green terrain girding the city, and as the sweaty string of roans, chestnuts, and bays descended the gentle slope back toward the stables, a pang of longing rose as gentle as the rolling hills: I wanted to gallop.
Yet I was afraid. During my childhood, as a horse-obsessed girl in dude ranch heaven, I pounded over the trails five times a day with the naïve fearlessness born of youth. Years later, during a country visit to family friends in upstate New York, I was thrown from the saddle by Breezy, a skittish chestnut who lived up to her name by inexplicably charging a fence. I landed on my right shoulder, and rose shaken but uninjured. Then during a suburban trail ride years later, the saddle slipped loose around the feisty Pistachio’s girth, and I plummeted to the rocky ground as the spooked chestnut galloped off.
Now personal circumstances were not helping my confidence. A week before this family vacation, I left a difficult situation with the man I’d married the previous summer, hoping I’d made the right choice. My marriage had been a short yet brutal descent into verbal abuse, veering closer and closer to physical violence. On the morning I finally left, my enraged husband hurled a heavy shoe at my retreating figure, striking the back of my knee. I limped for the rest of the day as I carried boxes of belongings away to a new life. But the woman I now was – and the fearless young rider buried deep inside of her – had been thrown yet again, this time struggling back up more slowly, bruised by much more than an aching shoulder and sore hamstring.
Despite my well-founded misgivings, as our group approached the last straight section of trail, I turned in the saddle and asked Mike, our Dominican cowboy, if we could trot. This gait is bumpy but easy, a controllable pace quicker than a walk but safer than a gallop.
“No, senorita,” he said, in heavily accented English, shaking his dark, hat-clad head. “This is a beginner ride.”
“OK,” I mumbled, feeling defeated yet relieved.
Mike removed his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead on pale sleeves. He contemplated me a moment before answering. “If you want, you take a private ride one afternoon later this week. We go out on the trail, ride how you want.”
Before I realized it, I agreed. Tomorrow afternoon, 4:00, at the stables. I would again ride Nuevo, an eager bay the color of wet nutmeg.
We soon returned to the corral and I dismounted with a vague mixture of anticipation and dread in my stomach. It had been years since I galloped on a horse, and longer since I did so without a tight grasp on the saddle horn. I decided I would hold on to get through it while enjoying the beautiful scenery.
For the rest of the day, safely back at the resort, I worried. What ifs bubbled up within me like a freshly poured seltzer. What if Nuevo grabbed the bit and ran wild? What if he lost his footing on pebbly ground and skittered sideways, crushing my legs? What if I fell and landed on my head?
Beneath all this, fueling my uncertainty, the shellshock of my recent separation and upcoming divorce burned through me. What if I made the wrong decision? What if I prematurely left my young marriage? What if I hadn’t tried hard enough? What if I failed?
The next afternoon I returned to the stables. Nuevo was tethered in the corral, his dark hide glazed with sweat. I approached his massive frame and offered a sticky lump of sugar. He refused it, slapping an inpatient hoof on the dirt while flicking his dusky tail.
Mike walked up, greeting me with a robust “Hola” while helping me climb into the saddle. From Nuevo’s broad back, I cast a nervous look down as we left the corral. Nuevo, cooped up in his stall for most of the day, rolled a bright, eager eye and tugged at the bit.
As we moved toward the rising hills, the trail gradually opened from a narrow swath through pale green grass to a pebbly path. “Ready?” Mike asked, more an invitation than a question.
We accelerated from a bumpy trot to a faster, fluid gallop, and my hand grabbed the saddle horn. I pressed my sweaty palm tightly around the rough leather. Mike stayed beside me, graceful and tall in his saddle as I hunkered down, our horses matching strides and fighting for the lead. Nuevo surged ahead, strong on the bit. “Rein him in a little,” Mike commanded, still sitting easy in the saddle despite our thundering gallop. I pulled hard on the reins and to my relief, Nuevo slowed.
We rode up into the hills, the trail a thin swatch against the tall grass and fruit trees. Small, battered farmhouses perched on the incline and rangy dogs barked along broken fences. Shy children peered from narrow doorways, their dark eyes curious. We waved, shouted “hola,” and trotted by, trail dust lazing in our wake.
Deeper along the trail, we veered off to hug the gently sloping hillside. Here the ground was smooth and green, and as we climbed higher, the town of Cofresi appeared below, tucked under the mountains. The endless ocean glittered, and the languid sun beat down upon distant buildings.
Suddenly, the grass slipped by and the air whistled past as we broke into a gallop. Nuevo was on the bit. I leaned forward in the saddle to aid his upward climb, and to my shock I realized I was not holding on. As the horses dug in, relishing their flight, something within shifted, whispering with a gentle yet insistent echo. Let go, it commanded, simple and unmistakable. Let go of the worry, the doubt, the uncertainty, and fear. Let go.
The nameless voice echoing through me was as simple as the dark bay horse on which I rode. He arched forward, running in sheer pleasure. He simply ran with the lash of breeze fresh against his face and the hot sun thundering down. Let go.
The miracle: I listened. Without hesitation, a long-confined fearlessness rose up, smothering the carefully constructed bars of my psyche, soaring. LET GO.
On the way back, past the tilted farmhouses shaded by mango trees, two riders sat in the saddle, giving their horses rein and smiling as they swallowed the ground with eager strides. The horse with the wise eye flicked his ears back, arched his neck, and galloped.
Yet I was afraid. During my childhood, as a horse-obsessed girl in dude ranch heaven, I pounded over the trails five times a day with the naïve fearlessness born of youth. Years later, during a country visit to family friends in upstate New York, I was thrown from the saddle by Breezy, a skittish chestnut who lived up to her name by inexplicably charging a fence. I landed on my right shoulder, and rose shaken but uninjured. Then during a suburban trail ride years later, the saddle slipped loose around the feisty Pistachio’s girth, and I plummeted to the rocky ground as the spooked chestnut galloped off.
Now personal circumstances were not helping my confidence. A week before this family vacation, I left a difficult situation with the man I’d married the previous summer, hoping I’d made the right choice. My marriage had been a short yet brutal descent into verbal abuse, veering closer and closer to physical violence. On the morning I finally left, my enraged husband hurled a heavy shoe at my retreating figure, striking the back of my knee. I limped for the rest of the day as I carried boxes of belongings away to a new life. But the woman I now was – and the fearless young rider buried deep inside of her – had been thrown yet again, this time struggling back up more slowly, bruised by much more than an aching shoulder and sore hamstring.
Despite my well-founded misgivings, as our group approached the last straight section of trail, I turned in the saddle and asked Mike, our Dominican cowboy, if we could trot. This gait is bumpy but easy, a controllable pace quicker than a walk but safer than a gallop.
“No, senorita,” he said, in heavily accented English, shaking his dark, hat-clad head. “This is a beginner ride.”
“OK,” I mumbled, feeling defeated yet relieved.
Mike removed his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead on pale sleeves. He contemplated me a moment before answering. “If you want, you take a private ride one afternoon later this week. We go out on the trail, ride how you want.”
Before I realized it, I agreed. Tomorrow afternoon, 4:00, at the stables. I would again ride Nuevo, an eager bay the color of wet nutmeg.
We soon returned to the corral and I dismounted with a vague mixture of anticipation and dread in my stomach. It had been years since I galloped on a horse, and longer since I did so without a tight grasp on the saddle horn. I decided I would hold on to get through it while enjoying the beautiful scenery.
For the rest of the day, safely back at the resort, I worried. What ifs bubbled up within me like a freshly poured seltzer. What if Nuevo grabbed the bit and ran wild? What if he lost his footing on pebbly ground and skittered sideways, crushing my legs? What if I fell and landed on my head?
Beneath all this, fueling my uncertainty, the shellshock of my recent separation and upcoming divorce burned through me. What if I made the wrong decision? What if I prematurely left my young marriage? What if I hadn’t tried hard enough? What if I failed?
The next afternoon I returned to the stables. Nuevo was tethered in the corral, his dark hide glazed with sweat. I approached his massive frame and offered a sticky lump of sugar. He refused it, slapping an inpatient hoof on the dirt while flicking his dusky tail.
Mike walked up, greeting me with a robust “Hola” while helping me climb into the saddle. From Nuevo’s broad back, I cast a nervous look down as we left the corral. Nuevo, cooped up in his stall for most of the day, rolled a bright, eager eye and tugged at the bit.
As we moved toward the rising hills, the trail gradually opened from a narrow swath through pale green grass to a pebbly path. “Ready?” Mike asked, more an invitation than a question.
We accelerated from a bumpy trot to a faster, fluid gallop, and my hand grabbed the saddle horn. I pressed my sweaty palm tightly around the rough leather. Mike stayed beside me, graceful and tall in his saddle as I hunkered down, our horses matching strides and fighting for the lead. Nuevo surged ahead, strong on the bit. “Rein him in a little,” Mike commanded, still sitting easy in the saddle despite our thundering gallop. I pulled hard on the reins and to my relief, Nuevo slowed.
We rode up into the hills, the trail a thin swatch against the tall grass and fruit trees. Small, battered farmhouses perched on the incline and rangy dogs barked along broken fences. Shy children peered from narrow doorways, their dark eyes curious. We waved, shouted “hola,” and trotted by, trail dust lazing in our wake.
Deeper along the trail, we veered off to hug the gently sloping hillside. Here the ground was smooth and green, and as we climbed higher, the town of Cofresi appeared below, tucked under the mountains. The endless ocean glittered, and the languid sun beat down upon distant buildings.
Suddenly, the grass slipped by and the air whistled past as we broke into a gallop. Nuevo was on the bit. I leaned forward in the saddle to aid his upward climb, and to my shock I realized I was not holding on. As the horses dug in, relishing their flight, something within shifted, whispering with a gentle yet insistent echo. Let go, it commanded, simple and unmistakable. Let go of the worry, the doubt, the uncertainty, and fear. Let go.
The nameless voice echoing through me was as simple as the dark bay horse on which I rode. He arched forward, running in sheer pleasure. He simply ran with the lash of breeze fresh against his face and the hot sun thundering down. Let go.
The miracle: I listened. Without hesitation, a long-confined fearlessness rose up, smothering the carefully constructed bars of my psyche, soaring. LET GO.
On the way back, past the tilted farmhouses shaded by mango trees, two riders sat in the saddle, giving their horses rein and smiling as they swallowed the ground with eager strides. The horse with the wise eye flicked his ears back, arched his neck, and galloped.
A Writing Guide for the Common Joe
Stephen King’s On Writing:A Memoir of the Craft gives readers and writers a look into the mind and process of one of America’s most successful fiction writers. The genius of this book is that it succeeds on so many different levels: as autobiography, how-to, and humor writing all at once. King is unflinchingly honest with both personal information and writing advice – and usually extremely funny in his truthfulness.
King begins his book – after three short forewords, of which number two most successfully sets the tone (“This is a short book because most books about writing are filled with bullshit”) by giving a streamlined and highly entertaining overview of his life in the CV section. This is useful as it allows the reader to see how King’s early experiences shaped him as a writer. He then moves into the more hands-on section, “Tool Box,” which refers to his successful metaphor that a writer’s necessary skills – vocabulary, grammar, etc. – are things that must be collected, stored, sorted through, and hefted with the skill and muscle borne of practice.
The next section of the book, simply titled “On Writing,” uses multiple examples from King’s own fiction along with the words of other authors to drive home simple yet useful points about adverb abuse, reading to become a better writer, and writing for the sheer joy of it. Although this last tenant may seem to veer toward the sentimental, King maintains his straightforward, practical, and humorous style in a way that keeps the reader as grounded and comfortable as the famous author seems.
As far as usefulness as a writing manual, King offers sound advice on the concepts of revising – cutting out at least ten percent of a first draft – and the “Ideal Reader,” an individual familiar with the author’s writing style who reads the manuscript when it has gone through its first revision. He is unflinchingly honest about the usefulness – or lack thereof – of writing classes or seminars, expressing his belief that participants seem to be “looking for a magic bullet or a secret ingredient or possibly Dumbo’s magic feather, none of which can be found in classrooms or at writing retreats.”
The final section of the book, “On Living: A Post-Script” successfully brings to front and center King’s near-fatal Maine accident at the hands of a deranged driver ("a character right out of one of my own novels," he memorably says). It is a fascinating tale that brings the focus back to the author, humanizing and humbling him to the reader even more in the process. As King was working on the title book at the time of the accident, the reader gets a full measure of the persistence and determination he displayed during a long and painful recovery – the same qualities he credits with making him a successful writer in the first place. The accident, as terrifying and almost-tragic as it was, therefore serves to bring the reader – and King also, as he sagely comments toward the end of the section – full circle and fully realized within his own narrative.
One possible drawback: some readers may find the book noticeably short on agent information and other particulars related to publication. This is, however, as prominently pointed out by the title, a book on King’s writing process and not the writer-editor-publisher dynamic that some aspiring writers may wish he had covered in more depth. Another possible problem is King’s advice that serious writers compose 10,000 words per day. While this is all in a day’s work for King, a professional writer who makes a very healthy living from his words, it seems an unrealistic goal for the average working class individual contending with a full-time job and other myriad responsibilities.
Overall, this is a solid, earnest, and entertaining book. King hold to his no bullshit rule throughout and the reader is left in the more-than-capable hands of a master storyteller whose first and foremost goal is to entertain. It goes without saying that writers everywhere should strive to follow his example, and this book is a witty, wise, and accessible guide on how to do just that.
King begins his book – after three short forewords, of which number two most successfully sets the tone (“This is a short book because most books about writing are filled with bullshit”) by giving a streamlined and highly entertaining overview of his life in the CV section. This is useful as it allows the reader to see how King’s early experiences shaped him as a writer. He then moves into the more hands-on section, “Tool Box,” which refers to his successful metaphor that a writer’s necessary skills – vocabulary, grammar, etc. – are things that must be collected, stored, sorted through, and hefted with the skill and muscle borne of practice.
The next section of the book, simply titled “On Writing,” uses multiple examples from King’s own fiction along with the words of other authors to drive home simple yet useful points about adverb abuse, reading to become a better writer, and writing for the sheer joy of it. Although this last tenant may seem to veer toward the sentimental, King maintains his straightforward, practical, and humorous style in a way that keeps the reader as grounded and comfortable as the famous author seems.
As far as usefulness as a writing manual, King offers sound advice on the concepts of revising – cutting out at least ten percent of a first draft – and the “Ideal Reader,” an individual familiar with the author’s writing style who reads the manuscript when it has gone through its first revision. He is unflinchingly honest about the usefulness – or lack thereof – of writing classes or seminars, expressing his belief that participants seem to be “looking for a magic bullet or a secret ingredient or possibly Dumbo’s magic feather, none of which can be found in classrooms or at writing retreats.”
The final section of the book, “On Living: A Post-Script” successfully brings to front and center King’s near-fatal Maine accident at the hands of a deranged driver ("a character right out of one of my own novels," he memorably says). It is a fascinating tale that brings the focus back to the author, humanizing and humbling him to the reader even more in the process. As King was working on the title book at the time of the accident, the reader gets a full measure of the persistence and determination he displayed during a long and painful recovery – the same qualities he credits with making him a successful writer in the first place. The accident, as terrifying and almost-tragic as it was, therefore serves to bring the reader – and King also, as he sagely comments toward the end of the section – full circle and fully realized within his own narrative.
One possible drawback: some readers may find the book noticeably short on agent information and other particulars related to publication. This is, however, as prominently pointed out by the title, a book on King’s writing process and not the writer-editor-publisher dynamic that some aspiring writers may wish he had covered in more depth. Another possible problem is King’s advice that serious writers compose 10,000 words per day. While this is all in a day’s work for King, a professional writer who makes a very healthy living from his words, it seems an unrealistic goal for the average working class individual contending with a full-time job and other myriad responsibilities.
Overall, this is a solid, earnest, and entertaining book. King hold to his no bullshit rule throughout and the reader is left in the more-than-capable hands of a master storyteller whose first and foremost goal is to entertain. It goes without saying that writers everywhere should strive to follow his example, and this book is a witty, wise, and accessible guide on how to do just that.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Two Limes and a Bracelet
The man is Miguel. He lives in a different country a thousand miles away within a culture worlds apart from my own. Between us, more was unspoken rather than said, wished rather than perpetuated, intangibles peppering the air as limes dot a tree, washing the tentative breeze with the full, ripe promise of fruit.
The horse is Nuevo, a tall, faded bay with a white-starred forehead and a tumbling, jet-black forelock. He saved me when I first rode him by teaching me to let go. On my return to the Dominican Republic, he was still friendly, patient, and wise, but this time salvation came from a different source.
The stables appeared as if tucked into the rough blanket of Puerto Plata’s short, stony foothills and scrub-brush fields. I jumped out of the van as soon as it lurched to a stop and slid down the pebbly incline to the corral. My eyes quickly scanned the stable horses tethered loosely to the fence, but I did not see Nuevo. Then I turned, and as if on cue, Miguel led Nuevo out to me. I ran forward, embracing the horse and then the man whom I met for the first time the previous summer. He handed the lead rope over to me and boosted me into the saddle.
Not much at the stable had changed in a year, as if in accord with the notion of “Dominican Time,” a cultural phenomenon dictating that “in ten minutes” becomes “in one hour” as easily as hola slides from the smiling mouths of friendly locals. On the trail ride, Nuevo was still friendly, patient, and wise. Mike, the manager of the ranch, still told amusing jokes and belly-laughed in response to my own. Miguel sat with ease in his saddle, smiling and moving with panther-like grace. Yet his eyes seemed to follow me more closely as we trotted and cantered over twisting hills and grassy slopes.
The biggest change was me. The year before, I visited the Dominican Republic just after leaving a horrible marriage, and I was a sad, scared, numb woman. This year’s return trip marked the close of the required one year of separation, and although I had surrendered on the idea of love, it was a willing and non-hostile takeover that found me happy, healthy, and eagerly beginning my long-awaited divorce proceedings back in the States. Maybe this was why the ride was more beautiful, the hills more shades of green, the breeze more tinged with the scent of sunned fruit than I previously remembered.
After the ride, Miguel invited me to Café Esmeralda, the tiny ranch bar perched almost precariously at the top of the hill. Its double saloon-style doors opened to reveal a dark wooden bar seemingly out of an old Western. He beckoned to two bar stools and we sat as he ordered sweet, frosty Cokes tumbled with pungent Dominican Bruegal rum. We eagerly swallowed our drinks down and smiled at each other. Then, as the music playing over the radio changed, he suddenly stood and held out his arms. “The mumba,” he announced, as he demonstrated the simple one-two-three-foot up movement. I hopped down, grabbed his hands, and attempted to mimic his quick, rhythmic movements. As we moved in synchronicity, he smiled and nodded approvingly. “Very good, my cowgirl,” he murmured. After our impromptu dance we left the bar, his arm slung around my shoulders.
I was shocked at how natural his touch felt after my long year of separation. The next day, the warm hug he gave me when I returned for another trail ride left me equally at ease. I watched closely as he prepared the horses, carefully placing saddle pads on their broad backs, laying down the leather-embossed saddles, and quickly but expertly slinging the sheepskin-lined girth bands below their bellies and then back up through the silver loops securely fastened to each side of the saddle seat. His fingers danced over the tack with fluid ease, golden in the late afternoon light.
When everything was ready, he swung himself lithely into the saddle of a striking yet skittish dusky brown horse he simply called Black, and we went galloping off. Halfway through the ride, we stopped at a worn old farmhouse for cold drinks. As we tied our horses loosely to a tree, Miguel reached strong brown arms up into the branches and then presented me with a small yet perfect lime. It was warm from the sun, and I gratefully inhaled the breathtaking freshness of his gift.
During the return ride down a gently sloping hillside, the afternoon air was hot and heavy with the promise of rain. As we galloped, a fresh, damp clod of dirt careened up from Nuevo’s hooves and struck me in the face. I flinched and shifted, and almost fell as my foot slipped from the stirrup. Nuevo spooked through a puddle, and as we finally pulled our horses up, Miguel turned with his chocolate eyes laughing at my vividly mud-spattered jeans. He swung Black alongside and brushed the dirt off my face with gentle hands. I met his gaze, and amid the hot hills and pebble-strewn paths, a quiet heat flared between us and smoldered under the lowering sun.
On our third and last ride, we ascended the hillside’s swaying grass refreshed by a light but sweeping breeze. The sun painted the valley with lightness and warmth, and the tall mountain in the distance punctuated an otherwise unbroken horizon. After dismounting at the lime tree, Miguel reached up once again, pulled down a fresh, perfect fruit, and placed it in my palm. We walked together silently with our arms linked until he turned and gazed down at me. “I would like you to stay with me,” he said wistfully, as if willing it into being. “You would have a good life. Happiness everyday.”
I contemplated his words, awash in a forgotten feeling. Although we both knew the improbability of his wish, its quiet and comfortable intent fit like well-worn riding boots. I smiled as we continued walking, and then chose simple words, spoken with truth but without promise.
“I would like that.”
Back at Café Esmeralda, we drank cold beer as I pulled my eyes longingly over sleeping dogs, locals playing poker, horses tethered below in the coral, drowsing quietly in siesta. Then I turned and studied Miguel, his strong brown arms perched on the worn wooden bar, a simple yet sleek silver bracelet adorning his wrist. His dark eyes watched me admire it, and then without a word he took the bracelet off and slid it onto my lower arm. It stayed there throughout that last day and the next morning at the airport.
The plane taxied down the runway with a dull, plaintive roar, and as my eyes filled I wrapped my fingers around the smooth band so different than the previous one I had shed a lifetime ago during an empty and hopeless time. Somehow the silver felt warm with promise, and if I placed my fingers just so, a tiny pulse seemed to emanate from the center of its metal depths.
The horse is Nuevo, a tall, faded bay with a white-starred forehead and a tumbling, jet-black forelock. He saved me when I first rode him by teaching me to let go. On my return to the Dominican Republic, he was still friendly, patient, and wise, but this time salvation came from a different source.
The stables appeared as if tucked into the rough blanket of Puerto Plata’s short, stony foothills and scrub-brush fields. I jumped out of the van as soon as it lurched to a stop and slid down the pebbly incline to the corral. My eyes quickly scanned the stable horses tethered loosely to the fence, but I did not see Nuevo. Then I turned, and as if on cue, Miguel led Nuevo out to me. I ran forward, embracing the horse and then the man whom I met for the first time the previous summer. He handed the lead rope over to me and boosted me into the saddle.
Not much at the stable had changed in a year, as if in accord with the notion of “Dominican Time,” a cultural phenomenon dictating that “in ten minutes” becomes “in one hour” as easily as hola slides from the smiling mouths of friendly locals. On the trail ride, Nuevo was still friendly, patient, and wise. Mike, the manager of the ranch, still told amusing jokes and belly-laughed in response to my own. Miguel sat with ease in his saddle, smiling and moving with panther-like grace. Yet his eyes seemed to follow me more closely as we trotted and cantered over twisting hills and grassy slopes.
The biggest change was me. The year before, I visited the Dominican Republic just after leaving a horrible marriage, and I was a sad, scared, numb woman. This year’s return trip marked the close of the required one year of separation, and although I had surrendered on the idea of love, it was a willing and non-hostile takeover that found me happy, healthy, and eagerly beginning my long-awaited divorce proceedings back in the States. Maybe this was why the ride was more beautiful, the hills more shades of green, the breeze more tinged with the scent of sunned fruit than I previously remembered.
After the ride, Miguel invited me to Café Esmeralda, the tiny ranch bar perched almost precariously at the top of the hill. Its double saloon-style doors opened to reveal a dark wooden bar seemingly out of an old Western. He beckoned to two bar stools and we sat as he ordered sweet, frosty Cokes tumbled with pungent Dominican Bruegal rum. We eagerly swallowed our drinks down and smiled at each other. Then, as the music playing over the radio changed, he suddenly stood and held out his arms. “The mumba,” he announced, as he demonstrated the simple one-two-three-foot up movement. I hopped down, grabbed his hands, and attempted to mimic his quick, rhythmic movements. As we moved in synchronicity, he smiled and nodded approvingly. “Very good, my cowgirl,” he murmured. After our impromptu dance we left the bar, his arm slung around my shoulders.
I was shocked at how natural his touch felt after my long year of separation. The next day, the warm hug he gave me when I returned for another trail ride left me equally at ease. I watched closely as he prepared the horses, carefully placing saddle pads on their broad backs, laying down the leather-embossed saddles, and quickly but expertly slinging the sheepskin-lined girth bands below their bellies and then back up through the silver loops securely fastened to each side of the saddle seat. His fingers danced over the tack with fluid ease, golden in the late afternoon light.
When everything was ready, he swung himself lithely into the saddle of a striking yet skittish dusky brown horse he simply called Black, and we went galloping off. Halfway through the ride, we stopped at a worn old farmhouse for cold drinks. As we tied our horses loosely to a tree, Miguel reached strong brown arms up into the branches and then presented me with a small yet perfect lime. It was warm from the sun, and I gratefully inhaled the breathtaking freshness of his gift.
During the return ride down a gently sloping hillside, the afternoon air was hot and heavy with the promise of rain. As we galloped, a fresh, damp clod of dirt careened up from Nuevo’s hooves and struck me in the face. I flinched and shifted, and almost fell as my foot slipped from the stirrup. Nuevo spooked through a puddle, and as we finally pulled our horses up, Miguel turned with his chocolate eyes laughing at my vividly mud-spattered jeans. He swung Black alongside and brushed the dirt off my face with gentle hands. I met his gaze, and amid the hot hills and pebble-strewn paths, a quiet heat flared between us and smoldered under the lowering sun.
On our third and last ride, we ascended the hillside’s swaying grass refreshed by a light but sweeping breeze. The sun painted the valley with lightness and warmth, and the tall mountain in the distance punctuated an otherwise unbroken horizon. After dismounting at the lime tree, Miguel reached up once again, pulled down a fresh, perfect fruit, and placed it in my palm. We walked together silently with our arms linked until he turned and gazed down at me. “I would like you to stay with me,” he said wistfully, as if willing it into being. “You would have a good life. Happiness everyday.”
I contemplated his words, awash in a forgotten feeling. Although we both knew the improbability of his wish, its quiet and comfortable intent fit like well-worn riding boots. I smiled as we continued walking, and then chose simple words, spoken with truth but without promise.
“I would like that.”
Back at Café Esmeralda, we drank cold beer as I pulled my eyes longingly over sleeping dogs, locals playing poker, horses tethered below in the coral, drowsing quietly in siesta. Then I turned and studied Miguel, his strong brown arms perched on the worn wooden bar, a simple yet sleek silver bracelet adorning his wrist. His dark eyes watched me admire it, and then without a word he took the bracelet off and slid it onto my lower arm. It stayed there throughout that last day and the next morning at the airport.
The plane taxied down the runway with a dull, plaintive roar, and as my eyes filled I wrapped my fingers around the smooth band so different than the previous one I had shed a lifetime ago during an empty and hopeless time. Somehow the silver felt warm with promise, and if I placed my fingers just so, a tiny pulse seemed to emanate from the center of its metal depths.
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