Sawyer Prefers Blondes by Amanda Leigh

And here is the last response to our cat adoption prompt from the point of view of the cat!! This one I wrote from the perspective of my adopted kitty, Sawyer. I hope you enjoy!! We love pets!!

 

Sawyer Prefers Blondes

Meowwww….

Sasha mewls next to me, and suddenly all the kittens are clamoring to get a look, climbing over each other. I peek and see that someone is coming through the door. People! Humans! One taller, with black hair on her head and tan skin. And then the little human walks into the room. She’s not a kitten…a child. But she is small. And has yellow hair, and something on her face covering her eyes. They are dark, like they’re blocking out the light. Her smile is bright, and the room lights up. She seems a little bit nervous, but mostly happy and excited. Her and the big human come into the room more. The little one walks a little bit off, more weight on her right leg. Her fingers twist together a few times.

One of the nice humans who takes care of us tells her to take a seat. And I know, I just know it. This one is mine. This is my human. Who I’m supposed to go home with.

“Hey,” I say to my friends in our way. “Don’t be too cute.” 

Meow. “Why?”

“Because! Because I found her, this is my human. I want her, need her to pick me!”

“The bigger one? Or small one with the yellow hair and the things covering her eyes?”

“That one. The small one! I want that one!”

My friends meow in agreement. When one of us knows, we just know, and all of the others are supposed to respect that. We don’t get in the other’s way when one of us knows a human is meant for us, and we’re meant for them.

I’m the first kitten she holds, and I get to see her eyes because she takes those things off of her face. They look blue, but not blue. Blue, but then sort of grey like a few of the kittens in here. They’re kind eyes, I like them.

The woman tells her to hold some more. No, I think. This is my human. She has to pick me.

The yellow haired girl holds only one more before she says she wants to hold me again. Yes! Yes, she wants to hold me again. I’m place into her arms and she smiles again. The biggest one so far. She feels it, too.  She knows she’s supposed to be my human, right?

“This one’s awful cute,” says the bigger human, about a different kitten. No, no, me. She has to choose me.

The girl agrees, but turns her attention back to me. I can feel it. She’s going to pick me, right? Right?

***

Not too long after. I’m in some sort of mini house made of the same thing the square things we like to play in are. And in this I’m seated on my new human’s lap, in a big metal thing that seems to fly. I hear other ones, too, and the noises scare me.

“Shhh. It’s okay. We’re almost home. It’s okay.” The little human’s voice soothes me. Her voice is soft, and calm, and I like listening to her. I don’t like this metal box that moves, but I like listening to the little woman’s voice.

 ***

When we get to my new home, I’m happy, I’m excited, but I’m still scared. It’s a new place. And there’s so much more room!

So many new things. I don’t know what to look at first. I want to run up to all of them, and sniff them, and play with some of them, but I stay in my little house instead. They set it down on the floor. I want to come out, but I’m still scared.

I start to come out more over the next few days, but I keep going back to my house box. (I heard them call it a box. That’s the word for it.) They show me my litter box. (I get my own!) They show me where my food and my water is. I go to that sometimes.  And they have toys for me already.

 ***

A few days into staying at my new home, I start to come out more, and play with my little yellow haired human. Seven times a day, she sits down and swallows many small things. They’re not food, and the bigger human doesn’t do this. They call it her pills, her meds. Sometimes she feels sick after the meds, I can tell. So I start to sit next to her when she does them, and start to crawl in her lap.

One day, my little yellow haired girl (Amanda is her name, but I start to call her mama in my head) is laying down on the couch (I heard the humans call it that) with a book (I learned that one, too. My human has a lot of them). She’s reading and sometimes talking to her mother (the bigger human!). I decide I want to be up there with her, too. So I jump up on the couch and pad over to her feet. She looks over the book at me and smiles. Her eyes go back to the book for a minute. I walk over her legs, up onto her stomach, and duck my head under the book to look at her. She smiles big and laughs. I walk right over her chest, and up onto her collarbone and shoulder, and lay down right there.

She holds her book out to the side, forgotten for the moment. Her mom takes out the little rectangle things the humans have and clicks a button. I don’t know what she did, but my human seems happy. She pets my fur and scratches behind my ears just right, and lets my stay on tip of her. She’s warm and comforting and my mama. That’s when I decide once and for all I made the right choice. This human was meant to be mine. I’m glad I adopted her. She has some issues, I can tell, but we’ll work through them together. 

Pine and Lavender by Jessica VanderWerff

 And our next response to the prompt, "An adoption story from the cat's point of view" comes from Jessica VanderWerff. A lovely ode to the human/pet relationship. We hope you enjoy, and please comment below. 

Bo 

Pine and Lavender by Jessica VanderWerff

Trigger Warnings: pet death

 

            I remember the first time my human held me. He was not like the children who picked me up too quickly. He was an older boy with a scar above his right eye, chapped lips and brown hair. He was gentle and his movements were slow. 

            “That’s our senior resident, you don’t want him. You probably want a younger cat to play with! Do they even allow cats in your college dorm?” The woman asked. 

            The boy stared at me and smiled. “I have an off campus apartment and I want this cat. He looks kind of sad. I think he and I both need a friend.” 

            The woman didn’t argue. In a few minutes I was in the older boy’s car. His apartment smelled of foods I didn’t recognize. He carried me into the kitchen and carefully set my pet carrier on the floor. He opened the door to the carrier and whispered to me:

            “You can come out when you’re ready.” 

            I walked out of my pet carrier right away. I was hungry and I smelled people food and kibble. The older boy chuckled and placed bowls of kibble and water in front of me. The kibble was soft. It didn’t hurt my remaining teeth like the stale stuff at the shelter had. I ate my food quickly. I had to eat quickly when I was at the shelter. Us cats all ate from one trough. If I didn’t eat fast, I wouldn’t have gotten very much, and no one ever shared their food with the slower eaters. It just wasn’t something we did. 

            “What should I call you?” asked the older boy. 

            I looked up at him. I had had a few names over the years because I had lived with a few families. The first family called me Harvey. I lived with them when I was a kitten. I liked that name but I didn’t like their children. They were rough and treated me like a toy. When the family had to move to a home that didn’t allow cats, they returned me to the shelter. The children were sad. I was not. Next, I lived with a family who called me Felix. I have met many cats called Felix so I did not like this name. The family often forgot to feed me so I did not like them. They left me behind when they moved to a new home. Their neighbors brought me back to the shelter. Then I lived with an old man. I did not know his name and he never gave me one. He smelled of sickness and chemicals but he was kind to me and fed me good food. Then one day he went to sleep and did not wake up. His family returned me to the shelter. I was sad for a while. 

            The older boy interrupted my thoughts, “I’ll just ask Lisa when she visits. She’ll know what to call you, she’s good with stuff like that.” 

            I didn’t know who or what a Lisa was, but when she came to the older boy’s home, her hair smelled of lavender, her eyes were kind and when she held me, her hands were gentle. 

            “Oh what a sweet old boy,” she cooed. “I’ll call you Sage.” 

            “Sage?” The older boy scoffed. Every grey cat I’ve ever met is called Sage. That’s so unoriginal.” 

            “How many grey cats have you met exactly? And that’s not why I called him Sage. He’s a little old cat grandpa and his eyes look wise to me. That’s why, Michael!” She smiled as she gave the older boy a quick kiss on the lips. 

            I would never be a grandpa, but she didn’t know that. When I was a kitten the workers at the shelter had done something to all of us kittens so that we would never be fathers and mothers. I was in pain for a few days but then I’d mostly forgotten about it. It didn’t matter now. I liked Michael and his Lisa. I neither liked nor disliked the name Sage but having a name and finally knowing the older boy was called Michael made me feel welcome. 

As the days carried on, Michael went to school and did work every evening. Most of his work was what he called studying, but sometimes Lisa would visit and they would go out together. One day they went out together and came home smelling of winter and the forest. They dragged a tree into the older boy’s apartment and decorated it. I stood at its base and looked up, feeling my eyes widen. I couldn’t help it, I had to. Despite my aging, aching bones, I began to climb. A few of the decorated orbs the humans put on the tree fell, but still, I kept climbing till I was mid-tree. I settled in one of the branches, inhaled the scent of pine and began to purr. I heard Lisa’s distinctive laugh that sounded like a pony neighing. (I’m a cat, we know what other animals sound like.) 

            “Look at Sage! He’s so cute, let’s take a picture with him.” Lisa sat below the tree, and my human, my Michael, sat next to her. He took out what he called a phone and took a picture. Afterwards, I climbed down from the tree and sat in my human’s lap. Michael hugged me and so did Lisa. I wished that they could hold me that way forever: the three of us, enveloped in the scents of pine and lavender. 

In the days that followed, the humans exchanged gifts. They even bought me something of my very own: a set of three toy mice filled with cat nip. I wasn’t very interested in the gifts. I was simply too old to play very much and my joints hurt, but I faked moderate interest because I knew it would make them happy, and I was grateful that they remembered me during their celebrations. Those were the best of days. 

One morning, Michael and Lisa began to take down the decorations. I grew angry and sad and bit Lisa’s hand when she tried to pet me right after she took the pretty star off the top of the tree. I did not mean to bite her. I was just upset because they were changing things that I’d grown to like. She was not angry with me. She sat down next to me and gently scratched my head. I looked up at her, trying to find some way to make her understand I was sorry for biting her, but the room began to spin. It was hard to breathe and there was a sharp pain in my chest. 

            “Something is wrong with Sage,” Lisa screamed. I heard her, but it was as if she was far away. Her voice sounded echoey and distorted. I felt myself fall over onto my side. 

            “Oh God, this is all my fault,” Michael yelled.  

            No, I thought. I wish I could tell my human no, that this was not his fault. This was not simply because he took down my tree. I am old. Not young-old like the older boy. No, not like him. Not a college freshman who thinks he is a man but is still very much a child. Us cats do not age as humans do. There is much we do not understand about your world and you understand even less of ours. When we age it does not always happen gradually like a human. Humans age like a whisper in a pine scented forest, cats age much more quickly and our time here is much shorter than yours but no less meaningful. 

I must have fallen asleep for a while because when I woke there were humans in white coats consoling my humans. 

            “His heart is weak, he’s old, there’s nothing we can do.” 

            My human, my Michael asked if he and Lisa could be alone with me. The other humans left the room. My Michael held me, gently as always. I looked into his eyes and tried to do what the humans call smiling. I wanted him to be sure that this was not his fault, that he had given me the best days I had ever known. I slow blinked at him, then he did it back. Lisa’s eyes were closed as she held me and my human. I inhaled their scents one last time: pine and lavender. 

The Purpose of Bootsie Pussywillow Palmer by Rebekah Palmer

Our next prompt is to tell a cat adoption story from the point of view of the cat!! We are called The Cat Chat Writers, so obviously we love cats!! We all thought this would be a fun exercise. :) And our first one is Rebekah's story. A nod to how pets can be a very potent medicine. Enjoy, and please comment!!

Bootsie Pussy Willow Palmer

 The Purpose of Bootsie Pussywillow Palmer by Rebekah Palmer

Trigger Warnings: chronic illness, throwing up

My eyes opened to see a frizzled-haired woman reach her hand towards my head.

"This one's eyes are clear."

She started scratching behind my ears then stroked my back and tickled under my chin. I was then lifted by the man next to her and put into a cardboard box. 

An engine started around me and I was off to start my third life somewhere besides my previous two that had lived out on this farm. Gone was the warmth of my mother's belly, the smell of my siblings, the cows, the hay, and the tepid milk.

The first morning I awoke next to a slight wisp of a girl with yellow, corn silk hair. I smelled myself over. The scent of urine was overwhelming. It wasn't me. The frizzle-haired woman was back again using her hands to tug the soaked sheets off the bed from underneath the girl, whose pictured-outer-fur-of-sorts was sticking to her body, revealing peachy, pale smoothness after it was removed.

I jumped off the bed and went looking for my moist food that had been in the kitchen last night. House life was cushy and barn life was cozy.

Something was terribly wrong with this girl though and I was to be a comfort, I suppose, for her. She seemed a bit frightened of me. My elegant grey fur and white-socked paws were exquisitely coiffed to perfection. I always am a sight to behold, as evidenced by the frizzle-haired woman's earlier exclamation about my eyes.

The sound of water running in the next room alerted me to the girl being cleaned. Humans are silly using water and hard lumps or gooey liquid to make their bodies presentable. I only discovered this having observed the man the other night using the room down the hall for such purposes.

He did not like my cat's eyes assessing his process so I was promptly excused to the girl's room.

While I did live on a farm with smells to revel in, a new smell coming near the girl who had appeared at the kitchen table presented itself to me. It was noxious like cow barn but more like the cow barn was on fire.

The girl was putting small, white pieces in her mouth and drinking from a cup after each piece.

"Do you have all your medicine taken?" from the frizzle-haired woman.

Medicine. Medicine smells badly.

"Gah. Cystagon." The man mumbled as he joined the girl at the table.

"You take it, Dad." The girl responds.

"I do not have Cystinosis." He states.

Whatever this Cystinosis is, this is what is causing the girl to be wet in her bed and swallowing smelly medicine.

Maybe I am to be a better medicine of sorts. A beautiful and playful medicine so the girl will have joy.

I need to give her joy because she suddenly has left the table and loud noises and splashing come from the water room.

"We'll be late for her first day o f Kindergarten. I'll have to give her another dose with apple sauce."

I can give the frizzle-haired woman joy too. So I start playing with her toes.

"Kitty." She smiles and pets me down my back like the first time she saw me open my eyes and look at her. I give her a nibble and lick her hand.

"I like her white paws." The man says.

The girl returns and is sniffling with tears down her cheeks.

"What do you think of the name Bootsie for your kitty? Because she only has white on her paws just like a pair of boots?" The man explains.

"I like it, Dad." The girl rubs her face. "And can her middle name be pussy willow like those grey plants by Grandma's cows? Her fur everywhere else is grey and soft like them!"

Bootsie Pussy Willow Palmer.

Joy has a full name. And it is me. Me that gets to live my third life a contented cat. 

*Cystinosis is an ultra rare disease wherein a defect in the cell's lysosomes causes cystine to accumulate and destroy vital tissue and organs in the body. Manifestations of the disease include massive urinary loss of phosphate, bicarbonate and other crucial electrolytes which are normally absorbed by the renal tubules, rickets, and failure to thrive.

*Cystagon was an early treatment for Cystinosis first available as a liquid then as an oral medication for those diagnosed with the disease. Another form of this medication (using the ingredient cysteamine that causes Cystagon to smell like sulfur) is on the current market called Procysbi. The difference between the two drugs is method of delivery: Cystagon releases in the stomach and Procysbi releases in the small intestine. 

This information can be found in the book Strength: Lives Touched By Cystinosis in the foreword by Dr. Paul Goodyer Professor of Pediatrics and Human Genetics McGill University Health Centre. The anthology is edited and compiled by Amanda Leigh and Amanda Buck. 

What I Need by Amanda Leigh

 

Image by JayMantri from Pixabay

We've been behind on posting our stories, but we are beginning to catch up. So, you will be getting a few stories posted here in June. And many of them shared on social media in June, as well. This is the last of our short stories inspired by songs. This one is by Amanda Leigh. Read all the way to the bottom to find out which song it is inspired by. Leave your guesses in the comments, and let us know if you guessed right!!

What I Need by Amanda Leigh

Soft sheets cling around me, your body heat next to mine, as I stare at the clock on the wall. The soft tick, tick, tick like a bomb set to go off and explode this moment into bits. I know it’s coming, the ring of your phone, that moment when I’ll be left here all alone, and you go running back home to her. I’m waiting for it, even as you press against me once more, waiting for the ring, wishing desperately that I could ignore it. That you would ignore it. She can’t love you the way that I can.

But the ring comes, a blare right through this moment, as I knew it would. I want to say something. I wish you’d stay. I’d get down on my knees and beg and plead. Ask if I give you what you need. Why do you go back to her and leave me? Can’t you leave her and stay with me? I wish you’d see we don’t have to live like this, that you could stay.

I don’t say any of it.

And you get dressed, kiss me, and let yourself out, as I knew you would.

And a week later, there we are again tangled up in bed sheets after making love. But it doesn’t feel like making love, not when you share your love with someone else, and hide me way. From her. From everyone. I ask again when you’ll leave, and you tell me it’s not the right time, that one day that time will come, and you’ll leave her arms forever, to forever be in mine.

But I don’t think I believe you.

I’m tired of waiting for you, and tired of being used like this. It’s too much pain. But still, I don’t stop you when you leave. Or tell you we should stop.

The longer you’re away this time, the more time I have to think. I can’t do this anymore. I’ve thought it before, but my will broke as soon as I saw you. I’m afraid it will this time, too. But I’ve put so much into this, and she still gets the best of you. So when you come calling, as I know you will, I pray I have the strength to tell you.

The next time you show up at my door, I don’t fall to my knees on the floor, beg you to leave her. I stand firm, tall and strong. Tell you this is wrong. We can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore. Why don’t you stay with her? I used to think I couldn’t give you what you need, but now I know it’s the other way around. I know she begs you not to go, and next time she does, don’t leave her to come to me. I’m done with this. I don’t want to live this way, and I don’t have to. Next time you want to be in my bed instead, don’t leave her.

Stay.

 

Inspired by Stay by Sugarland. 

The Gardener by Jessica VanderWerff

 

And here is our second short story!! This one is based on the song The Seed by Aurora. And this one is a story poem, which is part of Jessica VanderWerff's signature style. We hope you enjoy this story poem, and comment below with your thoughts. 

The Gardener
(Inspired by The Seed by Aurora)

 

The Gardener’s daughters

walked on their tip toes across the slate slabs 

that made a path upon the soil

they joined their mother

giggling at each other in the night air

amongst the daffodils, daisies and petunias

 

they watched their mother dig her fingers into the soil

taking a deep breath

she whispered a prayer 

thanking the soil 

for all the life it nourished

 

The wind began to blow

combing the scent of the flowers 

through the hair

of the three women waiting below

 

The Gardener lifted her arms

reaching towards the full moon

while hundreds of fireflies 

dutifully circled 

waiting to hear their wishes and dreams

The Daughters stared in awe

 

Their mother told them with a smile:

there is no life or death 

in the places such as these 

which exist outside of time 

there is only a gentle ebb 

as we wait 

reverently

for all those wiser than us

to whisper their secrets

 

The Daughters rested their heads

in the flower beds

while The Gardener sang her children a lullaby

they drifted off to sleep

dreaming of the tides, seasons, and the stars

Ramb's World 1993 by Rebekah S. Palmer

 

Our latest prompt was to write a story based on a song!! We were all very excited about this, and first up we have Rebekah's story. We really hope you find something in this read and enjoy it. If you could comment we would be so appreciative. And if you like our stories, please share with a friend!! :) Thank you so, so much. <3 

Trigger Warning: adult name-calling repeated by the children in this story

Ramb's World 1993

 Pushing my feet down on my bike pedals, I gain enough traction to coast down our cul-de-sac road from our gravel driveway. Randy, Taylor, and Kevin are already making laps around the smaller circle of our road. The circle where the ditches are covered with left-over tar used to repair our road a year ago, which makes that circle a special place for us to ride our bikes faster and gives us some air time on one or no wheels.

     The leaf colors of the trees are golden and burned orange, and the sumac is scarlet, as if it would blaze in fire. A grey house with white shutters peeks through autumn foliage on the half side of the small circle. 

     

     "My dad says dirty crotch-lickers live there," Taylor is saying, as if only his father would know these facts about the neighbors in their homes.

     "So?" Randy counters, "I'm not afraid of a couch-licker!"

     "C-r-r-r-otch licker!!!" Kevin sing-songs with his voice back at Randy.

     The boys start daring each other to ring the doorbell or knock on the door. I am silent as they know my dad is a deacon at a church and to say "crotch" would be impolite. Besides, my face tells all as it has turned several shades of pink to counter the nearby sumac reds. I trail behind the boys on my bike.

     "Let's park our bikes and play in the woods," announces Kevin, "Ramb looks embarrassed!" Kevin liked to needle me by letting the other boys in on my private thoughts no-so-privately written across my face. Ramb was also my nickname that was more gender neutral and made me feel more like one of the boys when we played all day together.

 

     "But I want to see what a crotch-licker looks like!" Taylor whines, "Let's just get closer to their yard...."

     We let our bikes fall into the slightly tarred ditch and walk across the small circle road and enter a copse of trees to peek over the fence at the grey house.

     A door opens and two women emerge--one with a child holding her hand and another with a child on her hip.

     "Aw...it's just a family," Randy whispers disappointingly.

     "Do you wanna watch kids all day or play Indians and cowboys in our fort?!" Kevin whispers loudly.

     "Yeah. Lets get outta here. I don't know what crotch-lickers are." Taylor announces and turns away.

     I watch a little longer as the children are placed down in what looks like a sandbox. The women hold hands with each other and I could get lost observing the affection shared in this moment with this family.

     "Ramb!" It's Kevin. "Come on! Stop being such a girl!"

     I turn feeling slightly less heated in the face and warmer in my heart just realizing a family like this exists in my part of the world. 

 

Image by Kanenori from Pixabay 

And our last story for the prompt "It was just the wind." is by Amanda Leigh!! This one has a bit of a spooky feel to it. I honestly felt that it was rather "Are You Afraid of the Dark?" reminiscent as I was writing it. (Who remembers that show? If you do PLEASE comment below!! It was one of my all time favorites. It was also a favorite of Jessica VanderWerff's.) Anyway. The story. It is an eerier sort of vibe, but not downright horror. I hope you enjoy, and please comment below!! 

Grandma's Secret by Amanda Leigh

The forest envelops us in its branches, like arms reaching out to us. A warm glow cascades down on us from above, bathing the trees, the bushes, the grass in golden light in patches where the light comes through. It’s a fine day, a lovely day, and nothing about this should feel threatening, ominous. But it does. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being followed, that someone – or something – is in this forest with us, has been eyeing us, and following surreptitiously as we made our way to the clearing with the cool, clear pond. I felt it, eyes on me, something watching. Every time I turn around I think I’m going to find someone peeking out from behind a tree trunk. A time or two I could have sworn I caught the edge of a hand on the rough bark of a tree, or the swish of fabric, but when I dared to look closer, I saw nothing.

A crunch of a twig or maybe leaves behind us, I know I heard it this time. I whirl around before the culprit can escape, just as Jocelyn says, “What was that?”

When I finish turning on the spot, there is a girl standing behind us on crunching red and gold leaves. “Nothing. It was just the wind.”

My mouth goes dry at her sudden appearance. My eyes dart side to side, but I see no one else. Jocelyn is quiet behind me. “Um, what are you doing here? Were you following us the whole time?”

Her head tips to the side, and something about the movement is too slow, too graceful, too…unnatural. My heart thumps hard against my rib cage. I swallow with difficultly against the dryness in my throat.

“No,” she says finally, shaking her head and slowly tilting it back into place. Then she grabs up her skirts and lifts them as she hops, all but skips, over the leaves. “No. I saw you, and came to say hello.”

“Saw us from where?”

Jocelyn tugs on my sleeve. “Jaz, can we just go? Please?”

She tugs harder, but I stand still, my feet unwilling to move, drawn to this strange girl before us. Something about her isn’t right, this doesn’t feel right at all. I can’t pull my eyes away from her as she slowly kicks out a foot at a pile of leaves, even that movement coming off as too slow and deliberate. Yet with an air of effortlessness to it. Joyce tugs my sleeve again, but I still don’t move. The girl’s hair flies out behind her as she comes to a standstill, and then waves as if a breeze, though I feel no wind. Her hands clasp behind her back, and she simply stares at us, smiling serenely. It isn’t necessarily a threatening smile, but something in it still sends my pulse racing. Just as I take a step closer to her, a murder of crows flies out of the nearest tree, cawing loud and ominously.

“Shit!” Joyce exclaims behind me, and I can just picture her clapping her hand over her chest. The girl before us doesn’t even flinch, just stays staring at us. No, wait…staring at me.

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

Pale eyes bore into me, and she doesn’t answer right away. She blinks, and I get the impression she’s thinking about it. Why would she have to think about her own name?

“Cynthia,” she says finally. “My name is Cynthia.”

“Cynthia.” I test it out on my tongue. “Nice to meet you, Cynthia,” I say slowly. Her heart shaped face is perfect, unblemished, and unmarred by age. “How old are you, Cynthia?”

“I’m fourteen,” she says, and then I hear it. Something off in her voice, though I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s as if it’s coming from an old radio, the kind my grandma had in her house and would make us listen to sometimes.

“Fourteen? What are you doing out here all alone?”

“My mother was out here with me.” She looks around her. “I lost her.”

Behind me, Joycelyn leans over to whisper in my ear. “Come on, Jaz, can we please go? Something doesn’t feel right.” I lean back a little closer, though my eyes are trained on Cynthia. “I can’t explain it, but…I don’t like this. Please? Let’s just go?”

The logical side of me (or is it the illogical side? For what harm could this girl pose to us?) think she is right, but there is another part of me, and that part doesn’t feel right about leaving this girl alone in the woods, looking for her mother.

“You go,” I whisper back to her. “I’ll stay here.”

“What?” she hisses. “Are you out of your mind? Absolutely not. I’m not leaving you alone in here…with her.” She nearly spits out the word her and I wonder what she feels when she looks at her.

“Joycelyn, she’s a fourteen-year-old girl looking for her mother. I can’t just leave her. I may never know where my mother is but maybe I can help her find hers. Besides, what harm could she do?”

She is so close I feel the shake of her head. “That’s what they always say in horror movies right before that someone does, in fact, do them harm.”

“I’ll be fine,” I whisper back. “You can go.”

Her warm exhale lands on my neck. “No,” she says finally. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Cynthia kicks at some leaves, and looks back up at us. Her green eyes the same shade of green the leaves are in Spring and Summer. Can I just leave her out here? She swishes her skirts against the leaves and the swoosh of it rings through the silent forest. Jocelyn is right; there is something strange about her, like she doesn’t fit. But I also know that I can’t leave her, I just can’t.

“Okay,” I say, thinking fast. “Okay. We’ll go, but I’m still not leaving her. She’s coming with us.”

Another sigh. “If that is the only way to get you out of her, fine. Let’s go.”

“Good,” I mumble, turning my full attention back on the girl before us. “Cynthia?” She cocks her head. “We’re going to go back, why don’t you come with us? We can find someone to help you and-“

“No,” she cuts me off.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m not going with you.”

“But Cynthia-“

“I’m staying here.”

Joycelyn edges closer, but still angles her body so I’m standing in front of her. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye and she glances back. “Now what?”

Now what, indeed.

“You go on ahead,” I whisper. “I’ll convince her to come, we’ll be right behind you.”

“No!” she all but shouts. Cynthia doesn’t react, but Joyce whispers the next words anyway. “No, absolutely not. You’re going to come with me to find a park ranger, and we’re going to tell him about the girl in the woods. Then they’ll figure this out. That’s how we’re doing this, and you know I’m right.”

I know she is, and yet I can’t bring myself to leave this girl. Something in me is drawing me to her, a pull that simply won’t let take one step away with Joycelyn. But I know she won’t leave without me, and she won’t stop going on about it if I don’t do something.

“Okay,” I concede, or pretend to. “Okay, we’ll do it your way.”

“Cynthia, you’re sure you don’t want to come with us?” Joycelyn’s voice is shaky, but she gives one last try nonetheless.

“No, I’m okay, thank you,” Cynthia says, unconcerned.

“Okay,” she mutters. She jerks her head over her shoulder. “Come on.”

“Coming.”

She’s walking so fast, and her boots are crunching so hard and loud on the leaves and twigs that she doesn’t notice I don’t follow her.

***

My breath saws out of my lungs in huffs as I all but run from the scene of that little girl who freaked the hell out of me. I don’t know what Jaz was thinking, wanting to stay with her.

I turn around to ask my friend just that question and am met with…no one. My heart plummets. “Jaz?” I ask softly, not wanting to disturb the forest, or anything else that might be lurking in it. “Jaz?” A little louder. Where is she? I spin on the spot, but see no one around through the half bare branches of the trees. “Jaz?” I yell.

Nothing in the forest moves. It is completely and utterly still.

The truth hits hard. She stayed behind. She never meant to come with me. I should have known, but I just wanted to get out of there. But…have I really gone this far? How long have I been walking? How far could I have gotten? Not this far, surely? There is no sign of them on any side of me. The slithering feeling that something is wrong creeps over me again.

“Jaz?” I scream.

***

“You sent her away,” Cynthia says, her head titled to the side in that unnatural way of hers. Her voice so like an old radio, I’m even convinced I hear the crackling of static.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to leave you out here alone.”

She clasps her hands behind her back. “I think I’ve been out here alone…” she tilts her head back, looking up through the branches of the trees. “A long time, I think? I’m not sure. I can’t remember…”

“You don’t know when you got lost?”

She walks over to a tree and reaches her hand up, brushing it softly against the bark. I watch for any sign of an animal – a bird, a squirrel, an insect, - reacting but nothing happens. The forest is eerily still. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be anyone else out here at all. This is a national park, during the day. Shouldn’t other people be out here? Were there other people out here when Joycelyn and I first walked into these woods? I can’t remember.

I still feel that pull to Cynthia, but the growing awareness that something is off is building up inside me. Where are all the people? Where are all the animals? I haven’t seen one since that murder of crows scared Joyce flying out of the tree. The very tree Cynthia is now touching, I believe. There should at least be animals scurrying around in the trees. But there is nothing.

What’s scared them off?

Gulping down saliva, I realize I know the answer. Cynthia. She scared them off.

“No,” she answers me finally, still looking up into the tree branches. Or passed them, to the sky. “I can’t remember.”

“What year is it, Cynthia?” The question surprises me as it comes out of my mouth, like I’ve known to ask it since she first appeared behind us.

She turns to look at me again. “Nineteen fifty-two,” she says matter-of-factly.

The world seems to crash down around me. It feels like I have a bunch of pieces to a puzzle but haven’t fit them in quite right yet. But her proclamation of the year sends me reeling for some reason.

“Nineteen fifty-two?” I repeat.

She blinks, regards me skeptically. “Of course. What year do you think it is?”

I hesitate before giving my answer. “Two-thousand and twenty-two.”

“Hmm,” she says. I wait, but she says nothing more.

“Cynthia, why do you want to stay in the forest? Why didn’t you want to come with me and my friend? To find someone who can help you.”

Her green eyes are confused, and sad, as she stares at me. “I don’t…I don’t think they can help me?” She sits down cross-legged amongst the leaves.

“Why not?”

“I think that…that I’ve been beyond their help for a long time now.”

Leaves crunch under me as I, too, site cross legged on the ground. “Why do you say that?”

She doesn’t answer, simply sits upon the ground, her hands reaching in front of her to toy with some deep red, fallen leaves. She grips it gingerly in her fingers, but even still, it crumbles apart in her hands and the tiny pieces scatter to the ground amongst the other leaves. I watch them fall, flutter through her fingers; once here, and now so easily gone.

“What is your name? Your friend called you Jaz.”

“It’s short for Jasmine,” I tell her, and wonder if I should prod her to answer my question.

We sit in silence. Total silence. No animals scampering along the forest floor or in the trees, no people, no birds chirping, no wind to rustle the leaves. Just total, complete silence. The only things making any sounds out here in this forest are us. A chill skitters down my spine. Cynthia looks up to me from the ground and her green eyes snag me. I shake my head, trying to shake off the feeling inside me.

“Cynthia,” I say quietly, “Will you come back with me?”

“Back?” she asks, and I detect a hint of panic in her voice.

“Yes, back.” I squint at her, as if that will help me to find the answers I want about this girl who just appeared before us. “We can find someone to help you. Help you get home. Help you…find your mother?”

Her green eyes go wide and then she hastily looks back down as she picks up another leaf, the crunch of it the only sound in the silent woods.

“Cynthia?” She doesn’t look up at me, or answer. “Cynthia,” I repeat. She still doesn’t look at me, but I press on. “What happened to your mother? What happened to you? Can you remember anything?”

A mumbled word reaches me, but I can’t make it out. “What? You remember what?”

“Light,” she says, a little louder this time. “I remember light.”

“Light. Like, car lights? Headlights?”

Her brow furrows in concentration. “I don’t know. I don’t think so,” she says slowly.

“Not a car?” I ask to confirm and she nods her head. “Okay,” I say slowly, bite down on my lip for a second.

“Maybe…maybe a flashlight,” she says before I can voice the possibility.

“A flashlight,” I repeat quietly, nearly a whisper. That means someone was holding it, I think to myself. Who was it? Was it her mom? People searching for her? Or something…worse? “Do you remember who was holding it?” My voice is slow, soft, quiet; not wanting to scare her way like the frightened animal she reminds me of. And if this answer goes the way I’m dreading, that alone could be enough to spook her, to stimy the progress we’ve made together.

She doesn’t answer me, but I can see the far off look in her eyes. Like she’s seeing something that isn’t there. Something I can’t see. Or someone. I hold my hand to her, and her eyes focus back in on me a fraction. Wide, confused green eyes. I stand, and her eyes widen more.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s walk.” I don’t want to suggest going back again, as the idea clearly does not appeal to her. But maybe I can get her to walk with me; surreptiously get closer to my destination. “Just walk,” I say and her eyes flicker between my face and hand. She doesn’t take my hand, but she does stand up. She seems farther away from me than she was just a moment ago, but she nods and we walk off together. Silence envelopes us, and her eyes are distant again. I let the silence permeate the air as we walk on for five minutes or so, then I say, cautiously, “Cynthia?”

She doesn’t stop walking, but she gives a slight start, my voice cutting into her thoughts, her memories. “Do you remember who was holing it?” she repeats my question from several minutes before.

“Yes…”

Her mouth opens to speak, but no words come out right away, and I notice a slight shudder run through her. “I remember…something.” A pause, a slight break in her pace, but she keeps walking. “Someone.”

“Someone.” A whisper I hardly recognize as my own voice. “Do you-“ I croak through my dry throat, then start again after giving a cough to clear it. It’s still dry. “Do you remember anything about them?” The air itself seems to hold its breath around us.

“Cynthia?”

“I think it was a man. Dressed in black? No, perhaps brown?”

Brown, to blend in with the forest, I think, my chest constricting, feeling like it’s filling with acid from the burning in my throat.

“A park ranger?” I ask hopefully, though I can feel it, in my bones, what her answer will be.

“I don’t think so, no…”

I’m not sure I want to know if she remembers anymore. I want to stop right here, beg for her not to go on, because in my gut I can feel where this is going. But that makes no sense… my mind argues. I know it doesn’t, and yet I have such a strong feeling about this. I turn back around, looking at the forest around us as we walk. Barely a whisper of wind through the trees, one or two animals scurrying or flying overheard, but everything is still too still. Something is wrong, so wrong, but my head refuses to accept what my heart seems to know it is. We walk in silence for a while. I can’t bring myself to ask more yet, though I know I’ll have to. I promised to help Cynthia, and I still will, even if that help looks different than I originally thought.

My feet keep walking over crunching leaves, but I open my mouth to ask the question. “Any-anything else?” I ask. “Do you remember anything else?”

I get no response, but keep walking for a minute. There are no footsteps behind me. There never have been, I think with a slight chill skittering up my spine. But I always knew she was right behind me, walking with me. I felt it, I realize. I didn’t hear her, I felt her right there. Now I don’t.

“Cynthia?”

No response.

I turn around, expecting to find her gone with no trace – just like the first time, it seems – but she’s still there. Still as a statue. Or something else… Now the forest is totally still again. No animal scurrying, no bird flying, not one leaf swaying. Total and complete stillness and silence. And so is Cynthia. Total and complete stillness and silence. That can’t be right, she has to at least be breathing. Even as I think it, there is another part of me that thinks Cynthia hasn’t taken a breath in a long, long time.

“What year is it?” Cynthia asks suddenly.

“What?”

“The year,” she repeats, sounding breathless despite the possible absence of breath in her lungs at all. “What’s the year? You asked me what year it was, I said 1952, but I never asked you. What year is it, Jaz?”

“It’s 2022.”

“Sixty years?” It comes out on a breath I’m convinced she can’t actually take. So I watch her chest, and there is no rise and fall with breaths she should be taking in. “It’s been sixty years? How-“ she’s cut off, like something physically ripped the words from her throat. I swear I see tears gather in her green eyes.

“Cynthia?” I venture a step closer to her. Then another. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I remember,” she says around a soft, strangled sob. “I remember. We got separated, my mother and I, we got separated. There was something, someone, in the forest. A man?” It comes out as a question, and I’m not sure what would be worse. If it wasn’t a man – a human-, or if it was. “I don’t remember much else before…I remember seeing them, and then I remember waking up in a…a cave, I think. I don’t know how long I was there. And then I was…suddenly wandering the forest again. And then I was here, with you. Back there, when we first saw each other.”

“When you turned up behind us and said it was just the wind,” I whisper.

“Yes. How come I don’t remember anything? How come…if it has been sixty years, why haven’t I changed? I still look like a fourteen-year-old girl, don’t I?”

I nod.

“Your…contraption, I’ve never seen it. What is it?”

“A cell phone,” I say.

She laughs softly, a sad sound that tugs at my heart. “I don’t even know what that is. A telephone?”

“Yes,” I say. “But portable. You can carry it around and call people with it, in case of emergencies.” I wonder if this would qualify as an emergency then almost laugh aloud at the thought. An emergency. What would I say? Who would I even call? My mind very inappropriately throws back an answer of Ghostbusters. Unbelievable.

I glance down at it.

“Are you going to call someone?” Cynthia asks, and I think I sense a note of worry in her voice.

“I can’t; there’s no service.”

Her brow crinkles with confusion, but she doesn’t ask me to explain. That’s good, because I don’t know if I could explain it to her satisfactorily at this moment. A heavy silence drags on between us, and then Cynthis breaks it.

“I died, didn’t I?” The soft sentence hits like a bomb around us in the silent forest.

Our eyes meet, and I don’t want to tell her yes, but also can’t bring myself to tell her no, because I think – no, I know – that I would be lying to her. Because I think I’ve known this truth for longer than I want to admit. Perhaps since she first appeared behind us without so much as rustling a leaf under her feet.

Instead, I reach out to touch her – for the first time since I saw her. My fingers hover above her, my hand trembling, not wanting to close the distance between our fingers. Cynthia doesn’t budge as I force my hand forward to touch hers.

Only my fingers slip right through hers.

I suck in a breath, and Cynthia looks from our hands to my eyes, her young face unsurprised but teaming with sadness. Her green eyes lose their sheen, and her eyes look so much older than her fourteen-year-old self. Older than me. As old as she should be right now; as old as she should have been given the chance to grow to be. It hits me all at once; tears are sliding down my face before I even have a chance to register their sting in the corners of my eyes. Not even giving me the chance to try to hold them back, though I’m not sure I would have. This girl, this innocent teenage girl, lost her life in this forest. Years stolen away from her. Years she deserved to live. And her mother. Those years were stolen from her, too. Whoever…I can hardly bring myself to think the word. Whoever killed this girl, he robbed her and all the people she loved of years they should have had. Memories they should have made. Though a ghost stands before, the one who killed her is the monster. The one to fear and revile.

I nod, the lump in my throat making words impossible.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out.

She simply nods. Her eyes search mine, something other than sadness in them. “You look so familiar.”

“So do you,” I say.

“What’s your last name?” she asks.

“Terjesen.”

She blinks, her green eyes gone wide. “That’s my last name.”

The lump in my throat gets stuck, like a baseball inside my throat; I can’t get the words out. I flap my lips a few times as Cynthia looks at me. “You’re…you’re Cynthia Terjesen?”

“Yes.”

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Adeline.”

My knees buckle and I nearly fall to the leaf strewn ground. “That’s my grandmother.” My throat is so dry that the words actually hurt coming up.

We stare. Just stare. Neither of us seem able to find the words to express what we’re thinking. Whatever that might be. I’m not even sure that I know what I’m thinking right now.

“Adeline Terjesen. She…she was your grandmother?”

“Yes, she is,” I whisper.

Cynthia big eyes blink twice, and then she says, “So…that…that would make me your…your…”

“…my aunt,” I finish the thought for her, even though I can scarcely believe it myself. It makes no sense. Doesn’t it?

“I’m your aunt,” she repeats. Like she’s testing the words on her tongue, her eyes vacant and distant, looking just over my shoulder. Then her eyes snap back to mine. “But, you, you’re,” she stops, stuttering over her words, but I think I know where she is going with them. I don’t interrupt though, just let her talk. “You’re here.”

I nod. “I am.”

“You exist.”

“I do.” Another nod.

“You’re here,” she repeats. Her brow scrunches with concentration or displeasure, I can’t be sure. “That means that…my mother had another child.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “My mother.”

If the breath could have been knocked out of her, that is what would have happened. Her eyes widen, then she blinked and stumbled backward. Then she blinked again, and a sad little smile overtook her face. Her pretty young face lost its surprise and was suddenly a mask of almost calm. Not quite, but it was much closer to calm. Probably closer than mine was. Her lips part, but no sound escapes them for what feels like an eternity.

Then, “What’s her name?

“What?” I repeat.

“Your mother. My…my…my sister.” I think I see her gulp, gulp down her tears.

My chest seems to constrict in on itself. Her sister. My mother. Her sister, this girl before me, this fourteen-year-old girl, - the one whose life was robbed from her – is my Aunt, She should be eighty-four years old right now. She should have grey hair, skin wrinkled from years of smiling and laughing and frowning and crying. Maybe she would have children, grandchildren. I would have cousins; I have nine now. Mom has no siblings, Or, that is what we thought, if she had grandchildren, I would have second cousins, probably. I think they might be closer to my age than the children she would have had in this hypothetical life of hers.

I wonder what they would have been like. Would I call her children my cousins or would I call them Aunt and Uncle? How many would she have had? Would she have had only one or two, like Grandma Adelaide. Or would she have a bunch of children? Six or seven, or more? Would her children have had children?  Would I have a whole litter of cousins of running around? What would they be like? Would we have had play dates as babies and toddlers? They would have been my first friends? Would we still have sleepovers today? Would they cone over for dinner? Would Cynthia still be there with us at her ripe old age of eighty-four? Sitting next to my grandmother at the head of the table, my mom on the other side? Telling stories if their youth? Mom would have had a sister to grow up with. She always wanted one, and she just never knew that she did have one, she just never had a chance to meet her, to know her. Grandma didn’t even tell anyone. Suddenly, the crime this person committed – whoever they are – seems to increase tenfold the more I think about the life Cynthia could have had, my mom could have had, the life I could have had, all the people who could have been born and the lives they could have lived. The people they could have loved and who could have loved them, the things they would have done. This man, this person, someone, they robbed the world of so much. I should feel anger toward them for what they did, and indeed I do, but right now, what I’m feeling more than anything is overwhelming sadness. For Grandma, for mom, for Cynthia, for me, for all the unborn children and grandchildren, for the world that could have known them all.

“Jaz?” Cynthia whispers, and I wonder how long I’ve been standing here ____ over things that could have – should have – been. “What is your mother’s – my sister’s – name?”

“Leeann,” I whisper, my voice finally cracking around the lump in my throat. “Her name is Leann.”

“And what about my mother? Your grandmother?”

I don’t understand her at first. I already told her my grandmother’s name, that’s how we knew she is her mother. I start to shake my head and Cynthia says, “Is she still alive?”

I almost laugh, and I can’t pinpoint why. “Yes,” I say, around the tears that have now started to fall, though a laugh or two falls free, as well. “Yes, she is still alive. She just turned one hundred.”

“One hundred,” she repeats with awe. “Mama lived to be one hundred.”

I nod, struck dumb for words, hoping some more will come to me.

“Eighty-six years older than me.”

Again, I don’t know what to say to that. That is nearly the age that Cynthia – my Aunt Cynthia, I think – should be now. “Yes.”

The forest is as silent as ever as Cynthia asks her next question. “Was she – is she – happy? Did she have a good life?”

Tears pour more freely down my face. At this girl’s concern, after figuring out – remembering – that she was murdered, being her mother’s happiness.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I think she is.” I don’t know if there is a right answer to this. Cynthia surely wouldn’t want to hear that her mother was unhappy, but what about hearing that her mother was happy even though Cynthia wasn’t there? Even though she disappeared and her mother never saw her again? Would that hurt to hear? Did it? And I can’t know everything Grandma is thinking. How truly happy she really us, though I do think she us happy. But I can only imagine the amount of times in a day she thinks of her lost daughter Cynthia and what could have been, just as I did. Except Grandma never knew for sure what happened to her. She’s gone eighty-six years without knowing. How did she do it and not go mad with the uncertainty?

A gnawing, hollow feeling crawls its way into my chest at the thought of all these years Grandma went without telling any of us. With keeping it to herself. Did she tell anyone?

“What about my father?” Cynthia asks, and my eyes dart back to hers.

“Grandpa died almost twenty years ago.”

Her eyes widen, and I wonder that she’s thinking. “I guess he…” she pauses, grappling for the right words. “Moved on?” She phrases it as a question, and I hope to God that she is not asking me, because I certainly do not have an answer for her. “Why wouldn’t he…” she stops again. My brows crinkle in curiosity. “Look for me, come find me.” Then my face pulls down into a frown. “Could he have?” Now her green eyes are staring straight into mine, and I think she is asking me for an answer this time.

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I have no idea.” Then, because she looks so sad, I add, “If he could have…if he knew he could, I’m sure he would have, Cynthia.”

A sad, but almost bitter looking smile spreads over her fair features. “No.” She shakes her head. “I know my father. The way he would he dealt with my disappearance would be to move on from it. To completely erase it as best as he could,” she says it ruefully.

“I don’t think he could ever erase it, Cynthia. There is no erasing such a thing.”

“No, maybe not,” he concedes. “But he would try his damndest.”

I’m surprised to hear her curse. In my mind kids from the 50s never cursed. I chuckle at my own preconceived notions and Cynthia raises her eyebrows.

“What’s so funny?” she demands.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I truly mean it. “It’s just when you cursed.”

She shrugs.

“I never pictured any teenagers from the 50s cursing.”

She cracks a smile, a real one. “I imagine that you’ve seen too many films set in the 50s, then?”

I smile, too. “I’ve seen my share, yes.”

Her smile softens. “Mom, and father and I used to go to the movie theatre. It was always a big event.” Her eyes go glassy, with remembrance, I think. “It was one of my favorite things ever.”

The mood is somber once again, and we’re both still.

Finally, I whisper, “I’m sorry.” The words seem so empty, useless, stupid even. I’m sorry. What a hollow sentiment for what Cynthia has been through, for what she’s just found out. Just remembered. While I wish that the one who killed her would be brought to justice, I also hope that she never remembers the moment when they actually killed her. She doesn’t deserve to; she deserves to go into the next life with a happy memory. The next life…something I wasn’t certain I truly believed in. Until now.

“I know. I know you are.”

“So what now?” I ask.

She looks up at the trees. “Moving on? I imagined there would be some sort of white light…”

“Yeah. Me, too. Although I wouldn’t be able to see it.”

“You can see me.”

“Fair point. But so could Joycelyn.”

“That’s true.”

Our conversation lulls, and we both look up to the sky, like we’re expecting to see a great white light shine from it and carry Cynthia up in it.

“Why isn’t- why can’t I...go on?”

“Maybe something else needs to happen before you can.”

“Such as?”

I shake my head, and as I do I see someone else several feet behind Cynthia. She wasn’t there just a moment ago, I’m sure of it.

“Hello?” I call out to her. “Who are you?”

Cynthia turns around. “Mom?”

“Grandma?” I blink.

The woman steps forward and I get my first good look at her. She is not my Grandma as I’ve known her, but from old pictures I’ve seen of her. Faded and frayed at the edges. This is my Grandma closer to the time Cynthia would have known her.

But when smiles, it is still the same. “Hello, dear,” she says to me.

“Cynthia.” She looks over at her daughter. “Just the same as the last day I saw you. Right here, in this forest.” She holds out her hands and Cynthia walks over to her, hands held out in front of her. When they meet in the middle the tips of their fingers fall right through each other’s, and they’re both suddenly less solid. They let their hands hover there, barely touching.

“I’m sorry,” my young Grandma chokes out. “I’m s-so sorry.”

“I know, mama,” Cynthia replies, her voice suddenly small, like a scared child. Which, I remind myself, is what she is, really. “We’re together now,” she says, her voice stronger this time. Their hands twitch and I think Grandma may be trying to squeeze Cynthia’s hand. They stare into each other’s eyes, and though I don’t want to interrupt the moment, I need to ask. Even though I do also know already.

“Grandma?” It’s the only word I can get out.

Her eyes find mine. A soft smile on her lips. She knows what I’m asking. “I just died, sweetie.” I knew, really, but it still hurts. Even though Grandma is – was – one hundred years old. “I was taking a nap in my bed, and then I was here.” Her eyes go unfocused a moment. “Your mom is just finding me now. Poor dear.”

“How do you know that?” I interrupt.

“I know,” she says mysteriously. “You should get home to her, Jasmine. She’ll be needing you. One hundred years old or not, she’s still going to be quite upset.”

“Jasmine’s mom? Your other daughter? My younger sister?” Cynthis interjects. She doesn’t sound bitter. Younger sister. It’s strange to think of it like that, even though it is technically true, Mom is older now than Cynthia will ever have the chance to be.

“Yes.” Grandma smiles. “I’m sad you two never got the chance to meet. I never even told her about you, or anyone, really. I couldn’t. It was too much…”

Their hands make that motion like they’re giving each other a reassuring squeeze again. Cynthia nods her understanding. “Still,” Grandma continues, “I so wish you two could have met. You would have been the best big sister. But now, she will know the truth. Jasmine can tell her.”

“What? How will I-”

“There’s an old shoebox in the very back of my closet. It has pictures no one has seen in decades. Of me and Cynthia. And an old diary that details the whole thing. Show your mother those. She’ll believe you then.”

“And what do I tell her when she asks how I knew they were there?”

“Go ahead and tell her the truth. Your mother was always fairly open minded. Tell her all of this first, and then show her the shoebox with the pictures and diary. I think she’ll believe you, dear.”

“Okay. I’m going to miss you, Grandma,” I whisper.

She steps away from Cynthia and walks over to me, lifting her hand to lay it barely on my cheek. I can just feel it. “I know, dear. I will miss you, too, and your mother. You were the best granddaughter. But I’ve had my time. I’ve had more than my time. It’s time to move on.”

I nod. “Love you, Grandma.”

Her smile is the smile I’ve always known. “I love you, too.”

She makes her way back over to Cynthia, the leaves silent under her feet. “Shall we, my dear?”

Cynthia nods then turns to look at me. “Thank you, Jasmine. I think I know why I was drawn to you now. You were in this forest – where my soul has been stuck – and you are a relative. You soul called to mine.”

I smile with tear tracks down my cheeks. “I’m sorry I never got to know you as my Aunt.”

“Me, too,” she says. “Thank you again.” A pause. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope it’s a very long time for you until we see you again.”

I laugh through my tears.

“I second that,” Grandma says.

A soft white light opens up on front of them and they are more translucent than ever. Grandma reaches out for Cynthia’s hand, and they barely touch once again. “Come along, dear. It’s time to go.”

Tears sting my eyes, and I blink them away so I can watch them walk into the light until they fade from view. As soon as they’re engulfed by it, it shrinks into nothingness. A soft breeze follows, and I can again hear the birds singing, and animals scurrying through the forest. My phone dings at that exact moment. Service is back.

I glance down at the screen. Missed call: Mom.

I know exactly what she’s calling about.

I exhale shakily. Grandma may have told me what to do, but I’m still not sure how I’m going to explain all of this to my mom. Grandma’s secret.