In The Dead Of Night: A Stranger’s Pain

I awoke with a start. Rivulets of sweat coursed through my hair strands and I was sure that I would pass out from the heat that enveloped me.

It was almost 10 p.m. and our standing fan had abruptly stopped running. I glanced through the open glass louvres to my right and discovered that the street lamps on the main thoroughfare were off as well… power outage in 100-degree heat. On a windless night, this was not my idea of a good time.

I shuffled toward the living room to find DH already making the report to the power company. It would be a long night…

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Our Father

I remember it like it was yesterday…Our Father

The day I first paid attention to the fact that the first two words of the prayer we recited in school were somewhat personal…

OUR Father.

Never mind the “Who art in heaven” that followed on its heels. None of it made sense.

Ours? Mine? Why would I even want to own another father – especially One  who I could not see – when the one I already had seemed to think that pocket money and gifts from an ever-increasing distance would fill the void that he left behind when he walked away.

The way he tells it, it was all Mom’s fault. She had written a letter outlining his sins past and present, as well as the sins he would probably commit in the future, and had told him to leave. I have never seen the much-referenced letter and one would think that such incriminating evidence would be preserved for posterity, but I digress…

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