Aunt Mary: Oatmeal Raisin Cookies

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Spaces Between Words: A Memoir

Oatmeal raisin cookies, sweet aromatic scent, warm clear steam floating in front of me like a pastry vision. Aunt Mary, brown like her cookies, lifts the plate and moves it away from me, and tells me to eat my dinner, to wait for dessert. Impatiently, I tell her that I had to have a cookie right then. (At four years old I couldn’t wait).

Behind her, I see a train track suspended in the air just beyond her kitchen window. It is in the near distance and I  wonder why the train track is so high up and how in the world anybody or even how the train gets to that lofty spot in the lower half of the sky.

My mind drifts back to the sweet aroma of freshly baked oatmeal raisin cookies, Aunt Mary moving them further away from me, and my yearning to touch the bumpy texture with my fingertips, and then to finally lift the sweetness to my tongue. Wild-eyed, I  stare at the retreating plate. “Aunt Mary,”  I gasp. “I have to have one, now!”

It was at that moment she paused. Tall, square shouldered, regally Cherokee, her ebony eyes softened, her words whispered low like a night wind. “Here,” stealthily, she slipped a round warm cookie into the palm of my pale hand. She smelled sweet like her cookies. Like a sacrament, I quietly accepted the special exemption I had been granted.

My cousins passed around me unaware of a wish that had been granted and unaware of a bond that had been forged. My Cherokee Aunt Mary smiles at me in amber hues somewhere down the darkened cavernous road where kinship and bloodlines blur, and I know that she is just as much a part of me as I was of her.

 

2019 Copyright, Jenny W. Andrews

All rights reserved.

Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think.This excerpt is from a rough draft of my memoir. I have been writing on it and reworking it for a couple of years now. Maybe one day I will try to find a literary agent to help me publish it. If anyone knows a reputable literary agent please let me know. Thanks.

-Jenny

 

 

 

 

Second Go ‘Round

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Second Go’Round: A Tale of Two Marriages

I didn’t love you like I loved him.

(I loved you more).

I didn’t trust you like I had trusted him.

(I trusted you less).

You told me I had a wall around my heart.

(He told me I clung to him too much).

You referred to my first marriage as my first-go-’round, accused me of not loving you as much as I had loved him.

(He told me that he had never loved me).

Alone,  I lean against the rail at Knott’s Berry Farm and watch the painted pigs on the merry-go-round go round and round and I think of the both of you.

 

Copyright, Jenny W. Andrews 2019. All rights reserved.

 

 

Learning Still

 

 

 

 

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Learning Still 

Learning still that promises, like breath, evaporate.

That lingering glances are just teases, false promises.

Learning still that tomorrow truly never comes, that broken hearts cannot be mended.

That saying “I’m sorry” is not enough.

That it is not possible to forgive or forget.

That the world is never enough.

Learning still that I am truly alone.

Learning still that I have not adjusted very well to what I have learned.

Copyright (original, 2009) Jenny W. Andrews, 2019 All rights reserved

 

Edge of Summer

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Edge of Summer

Jasmine scented September morning,

heat lingers at the edge of summer’s dying.

Not defeated this clinging summer, sizzling, hanging on.

Refusal to quit.

At the bottom of my dark tunnel,

I struggle to glimpse the warmth waning like an ember dying.

 

Copyright Jenny W. Andrews 2019

I Need to Say

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I Need to Say

I believe in Santa Claus.

These are the things I need to say.

Stars on a June night long ago, waves crashing on a forgotten shore, wild horses racing down rugged moonlit mountain paths-these are the images worth living for.

The kiss of that man I had loved so very long ago, the memory of his voice still whispers through the darkness, through the sorrow of the passing of the years-these are remembrances worth living for.

The crush of sand beneath my sandals, remembering when.

 

Copyright Jenny W. Andrews 2019

Anniversary

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Anniversary

On a summer day in a different year,

that other world where I wasted my precious time, has ceased to exist.

But, but,

in my mind’s eye your image is rooted deep, each image a cut to my soul, slicing irreparable scars onto the canvas of my mind.

A world lost, crumbled and decayed.

Remnants of what had been.

A dream imploded; A moment mired in time.

I couldn’t save myself from you no matter how hard I tried.

Copyright 2019 Jenny W. Andrews

 

Thank you for reading.

-Jenny