G IS FOR GRACIOUS

It was 9:00 on a Saturday morning, and I was on my way to a meeting. But before that, I stopped into a local Starbucks. As usual, the line was long and full of fellow Seattle-ites, desperate for their morning shot of caffeine. I didn't really pay much attention, and shuffled through the email on my phone while the line slowly shuffled forward.

When it was my turn, I greeted the cashier with a smile, ordered and paid for my latte over a little chitchat, and was about to turn away to the "wait for your caffeine here" area of the store when the young man behind the counter stopped me.

"Can I just say 'Thank you?''" he asked quietly.

"Well sure...  though I don't know what for."

"You're the first person in about 15 people who's smiled at me this morning, and I just wanted to thank you for being kind."

I smiled at him again just for good measure. "Aw honey, you're just on the wrong end of the coffee.  But you're welcome... and I hope your day gets a little brighter."

I thought about that as I picked up my coffee and left the store. A little graciousness to touch a frustrated heart cost me very little. A smile, a kind word. That's about it... and yet went so far.

A little grace goes a long way.

THURSDAY TALES: DEATH AND DESIRE

BZZZZZZZZ.

Tessa slammed her hand against the alarm clock, switching it off. She didn't even know why she bothered turning it on. When a person stops sleeping, they don't need an alarm to wake them up. Another sleepless night, another bleary pre-dawn morning. Another day to get through.

It was the 11th day since her beloved husband Mark had died. Everything was numb. But, numb was better than the pain that filled her head when the numb wore off.  And at some point during the day, somewhere between the condolences and the pity and the shielded looks, at some point, the numb would recede and she was faced with the piercing knowledge that Mark would never be back.

And for the 11th day, she would face it all again.

Tessa pulled herself out of bed and slowly padded toward the bathroom. As she reached for the lightswitch, a voice murmured behind her. "Tess." She screamed and threw herself through the bathroom door, slamming it behind her and flipping the lock quickly.

"I don't who you are," she yelled through the closed door. "But get out of my house. I have a gun!"

The voice chuckled. "You do not."

She frowned. That voice sounded familiar. "Fine. A knife, then!"

"What are you going to do, Tessa? Throw a bottle of shampoo at me?"

"Mark?"

"Please come out, darling. There isn't much time."

Tessa opened the door cautiously, and peeked around it. Sure enough, there in the dark, she could see the form of her husband.  Her dead husband. "I thought you were dead?"

Mark shrugged. "I am-- sort of."

She wasn't sure that she cared. With a cry, she launched herself out of the bathroom and into his arms, staggering them both backward into the middle of the bedroom. She pulled his head down to hers and pressed her lips against his, their mouths parted, as his hands roved over her back.

"Tessa," he breathed heavily. "I can't... I only have a minute." He glanced quickly toward the window and tried to step away. "There's a letter in my desk downstairs. It's addressed to you, and I need you to read it when I'm gone."

"Fine, yes," she waved the demand away and reached for him again.

"It's important, Tessa." He looked down at her and ran a finger over her cheek. "God, I wish I had more time." Bending his head, his lips claimed hers in slow tenderness, his fingers caressing her hair.

It was too late. As the sun peeked through the room's curtains, it was as if he began to disappear. It wasn't so much a fading, as it was that slowly, parts of him flew away. Despite her cries of anguish, it was only moments before she was once again alone. Once again without her husband. Once again numb.

Hours later, she remembered what this phantom husband of hers had said. And opening the letter she found, she began to read:

My darling Tessa...  I'm not who you think I am.  I'm not WHAT you think I am.

THURSDAY TALES: I CAN'T TRUST YOU

"What are you doing?" I demanded, looking into her eyes.

She stared back at me just as fixedly, but in silence.

"You never make any sense," I tried to explain. "With your fits and stops and starts, I don't know what you're thinking anymore. You go this way and that way and I don't think I can trust you."

She seemed to start to answer, but stopped herself. She couldn't.

"You've been wrong so many times," I continued, "and I've listened to you every time.  And every time, you lead us into just... trouble. How do I know you won't do it again?"

The corners of her mouth quirked up into a sad smile and she shrugged helplessly. She knew her faults. She didn't need me telling them to her. She knew them well.

"I just don't want to be hurt again," I confessed, a tear sliding its way down my cheek.

She slid her hand over her heart and tapped it, nodding insistently at me.  So, I did the same.

"Okay," I agreed.  "Together.

THURSDAY TALES: THE CELL

*CRICK*

I can hear the door to the cell creak open, but I barely lift my head. It's not even worth the effort anymore. My eyes stay closed.

I try not to move, like he won't notice me if I stay still. But the awareness of him being back makes me aware of the tiredness in my arms. I try to resist, but I can't. I flex my fingers in an automatic attempt to get the blood flowing into my limbs again.

He notices.  He notices and he laughs.

It's not a laugh of humor... or maybe it is. Maybe he enjoys this. All I can hear is the cruelty in it.  And I cringe.  Inside, outside. It doesn't matter. He knows.

As he moves forward, I can hear the whip slide across the floor. He asks me what he asks me every day.

I respond the same way I respond every day.

Again, he laughs. I answered wrong. It long ago stopped mattering what I answered.  Every answer was wrong.

He shuts the door. He cracks the whip.

I retreat inside myself to the one part of me that he hasn't yet broken. It's a small part but it's still mine.

Maybe for just one more day.  But it's still mine.

THURSDAY TALES: ONLY IN THE DRIVEWAY

The sky outside his bedroom window slowly changed from nearly black to a dark grey. Morning was on its way, but he knew that the rest of the house would yet be in bed for hours.  The young man slipped from his bed and pulled on the nearest pair of pants.

Pulling his backpack from under his bed, he began to fill it with all the essentials for his trip. A change of clothes, his lucky charm, a bunch of bandages just in case. Today was the day.

With his backpack slung over his shoulder and his sneakers in his hand, he slowly opened his bedroom door and peeked into the hallway.  The house was still silent and it was safe to proceed. He tiptoed down the stairs, grabbed a cookie from the counter, and snuck out the back door, stopping on the back step to slip his feet into his sneakers.

There it sat.

"Only in the driveway," they had said.
"You must be very careful," he had been told.
"Always where Mother can see you," had been the refrain.
And, of course, "Don't ever ever ever ride it down the hill."

But, he wheeled it to the top of the hill, regardless.
He sat on its seat.
And with a deep breath, he pushed off.

It was the most exhilarating ride of his life.