The writer, like the priest, must be exempted from secular labor.
His work needs a frolic health; he must be at the top of his condition.
--Ralph Waldo Emerson
Melinda’s curse: a face others love to slap.
I staggered home that night, and entered the room through the window, so that my deadly father could not get me. I wondered what my life was going to be after the death of my mother. I had already dozed off when he came, hitting at my door. His fierce voice rang in my ears and so I quickly rose and opened the door. His sparkling eyes watched and blinked like that of a cat’s.
I remember it as the day of no fog. For the first time in awhile, sunshine reigned in my head, and clarity unlike any other resulted. I popped out of bed at six-thirty, cheery and refreshed, a teenager for the third day of my life. I slipped downstairs, following my nose.
“Tell me a story, Grandma. I could use one right now.” She didn’t answer, but then I don’t expect her to. Not this time.
