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This is the first post in a series, about a woman named Amara. It started as an idea for a short story, and it grew as I grew to love this fictional character. There are 20 parts on my site (linked at the bottom of each segment). This summer I have been re-posting from my first year of blogging, so as to avail my writing time to working on the completion of this story, hopefully in book form. I’d love to know what you think.
CW

As Amara sat behind the steering wheel of her car she got increasingly frustrated.

She looked around her empty front passenger seat for clues as to why she might have driven to this professional building, in the middle of her small town. She could not remember why she drove there, all that she could remember was steering her Oldsmobile into this parking lot. It was as if in turning her wheels towards the lot, her purpose for being there had disappeared completely from her memory.

She tried to look around, hoping to see if something around her might twig her memory as to why she had driven there. Nothing sparked her memory.

Maybe if she retraced her steps, but all she could remember was the moment her front tires turned into this parking lot. ‘Oh, what is happening to me? I cannot even remember any other part of my day, and here it is already eleven in the morning!’ The last thing that Amara could remember was climbing into her bed the night before.

That memory was vivid. The striped bedsheets had felt cool on her skin, as she had climbed into her side of the bed. Her side of the bed … after almost ten years of living without him, she still had her own side of the bed. She started every night there, and she would awaken in the morning, never having passed the invisible center line of the mattress. Once, having given herself a talking to, she purposefully lay in the very middle of the bed … and awoke the next morning where she always awoke, on her side of the bed.

As she pondered thoughts of him Amara’s anxious heart ached for his presence, for his companionship, for his wisdom and laughter in frustrating circumstances like this one. He had a way of seeing a lighter side to the tough stuff of life, and he had a way of lightening any anxiety that she was feeling.

But, he was not here with her, and Amara sat feeling more and more frightened. She wanted to let the tears that were filling her eyes fall down her cheeks, but that would be ludicrous for a woman of seventy-two crying like a baby where anyone could see her.

There must be a sensible reason for this odd bout of forgetfulness …

Unfading – Part 2

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For the next week, I will be featuring guest posts, as I spend my regular ‘writing time’ preparing for a speaking engagement. If you feel led to pray for me in this regard, I would so appreciate it, and specifically that Pinterest does not pre-occupy my writing time 😉 … I am so weak !

master

The guest post today was a guest post from a blog I subscribe to and read regularly. It is a heartwarming story that had me hearing that older story/song A Touch of the Master’s Hand.

Enjoy this lovely story.

“There was an elderly grandfather who had dementia and was in the last stages of that illness. The grandfather lived with his son’s family. One of his grandchildren was a girl of about 10 years old who loved her grandfather very much and couldn’t understand why he said things that didn’t make sense. She didn’t understand why he would yell out words in the middle of the night and wake everyone up. She didn’t understand why he didn’t know who she was. She didn’t understand why he changed and didn’t laugh and joke with her like he used to.

One day the granddaughter was exploring her grandfather’s possessions that were all stored in the attic of their home. She opened one of the trunks that she thought appeared to be a ‘pirate’s’ chest. To her surprise among other things it contained a violin case which she immediately opened. No her young eyes weren’t trained or she would have been able to recognize the caliber of musical instrument that this violin was.

From that time and for many days she would sneak up to the attic, take the pristine violin out of it’s case and hold it. One time she actually took the bow and ran it across the strings, which produced a squeaky sound. From that time on she kept practicing on the violin’ She was cautious to play softly so that no one would hear the ‘out-of-tune’ sounds she made on it and take it away from her.

The grandfather’s health was deteriorating rapidly and this was hard for the little girl who deeply loved her grandfather or “Papaw” as she called him. The girl’s name was Sierra. Sierra had been told that her grandfather was very sick and that she wasn’t to go to his room unless her mom or dad was with her. One day she decided to break those rules. Sierra decided to go into the grandfather’s room with her newly found violin and play him a song, howbeit she knew no cords but she could make noise” …

To continue this story click http://rogertharpe.wordpress.com/2013/04/16/.

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