Wildflower Writes

She’s a blaze of lightening on the basketball court. She dribbles down the center of the court, passing off to a guard posted on the three-point line and then running to make a pick at the baseline. She rolls in toward the basket, arms out and ready for the pass. The ball comes to her on a bounce. She takes a step and drives straight up to the basket, banking the ball off the backboard and into the hoop. The buzzer sounds. Melissa bounds toward the locker room with the rest of her team, meeting their hands with high fives. It’s half time and the Hawks are now up by two. On the way out of the gym, her coach slaps her on the back, square on her number 22. She listens intently to the coach’s talk, habitually biting on her nails as he discusses his plan for tightening the defense. As soon as he closes his speech, the team gathers around for quick cheer. “Fly Hawks fly!” Melissa runs back on to the court. There’s still a few minutes to shoot before the game starts. She plays her...

Continued from 5/15 post… Just as Wendy was trying to figure out how she was going to open the door when she reached the third floor, the door swung open.  A tall young man with curly brown hair, dressed in scrubs, jumped a little when he realized his path was blocked.  He held the door open while Wendy wheeled her bike through.  He cocked his head for a moment, a touch of amusement playing on his lips.  She gave a half smile and shrugged her shoulders.  She knew she must look ridiculous.  She found a family lounge area and wheeled her bike into a corner.  Surely no one else would be dumb enough to take a bike down stairs.  It was probably safe.  Wendy took a deep breath, and wiped her hands on her shorts.  She counted the room numbers, and finally ended up in front of 406.  She walked slowly into the room.  She looked for her mom, but no one was in the room except someone’s feet covered in white sheets to her left. ...

What does the ideal mom look like? Is it June Cleaver, wearing pearls while she vacuums and having dinner ready when dad walks in the door? Is it Lucy Ricardo, devoted mother still looking for her next big break on stage or screen, or at least a good adventure? Is it Roseanne Connor, keeping her kids in line with sharp remarks and always speaking her mind? Is it Abby O’Neil, the vegan, homeschooling, all-natural mom from Dharma & Greg who walks around in overalls and burns incense? Is it Reba Hart, a single working mom dealing with her teenage daughter’s pregnancy and her ex-husband’s new wife? Every mom has to decide for herself what motherhood is going to look like. For most people, no one is going to be harder on mom than she is on herself. As times change, society’s expectations of the role of mother change and evolve with them. I don’t know if there is any other time in history that has so many potential expectations of motherhood. Moms are supposed to be totally devoted t...

continued from 4/25 post As Wendy’s sobs lessened, unbidden thoughts came to her. They came slowly at first, then rushed in on her in another wave of grief. Would he be at her first soccer match in the fall? He hadn’t missed one since she started running up and down the field as a preschooler. What about graduation? He probably wouldn’t even see her graduate, or see her college dorm room. When she finally found her Prince Charming, who was going to walk her down the aisle? “Oh, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” she cried out loud, wishing for a miracle, wishing that all of this was just a bad dream. When Wendy couldn’t cry anymore, she blew her nose, took a deep breath, and put her keys into the ignition. The rain had lessened somewhat, but lightning still cut through the sky. She slowly pulled out of the lot and made her way home. The drive was a complete blur, and before she knew it she was pulling into her driveway. Her mother’s car was conspicuously absent. Mom was probably at the hospital. Sh...

Continued from 4/18 post… With alarm, Wendy noticed the two boys walking her direction. She could not be seen like this, almost out of control. Despite the downpour she began walking toward the parking lot. As soon as she passed the front gate, she broke into a jog, then a run. She began sprinting toward the “A9” mounted on a pole that designated her parking area. She didn’t see other people, or cars, as tears blurred her vision and mixed in with the rain, washing over her face. She jammed the key into the lock, swung open the door to her red Corolla, and sat quickly, slamming the door. She swallowed and blinked, trying to regain control, but then crumpled. The sobs came out loudly now, and she pounded her steering wheel. “Why daddy, why?” she screamed. She had called in sick at work that day, not able to face anyone. She tried to escape the inner turmoil by going to the park, but it had caught up with her. The cancer was supposed to be gone. When he was diagnosed the first time, both ...