PROSE
“I had Daddy’s frame. Stocky. She used to say my body was like a snake… that whatever I ate for lunch would show itself by dinner. It started when I was eleven. That awkward time when your body is pure baby fat right before the growth spurt, except my growth spurt never came. So, she’d pinch. My belly, arms… my backside. More as a reminder than anything else.”— Quote Source
— Appetite, a short story by Anne Adams
Read a piece by
Anne Adams
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Yesterday I turned forty-one but you were nowhere. I did the thing where you wait for a bird or butterfly to cross your path but there were only mosquitoes. Perhaps you were holding a class discussion on Chaucer. Or Socrates needed a bridge partner. Maybe breaking free from all who loved you was exactly what the doctor ordered . Regardless, please do not think that because you are dead, you are free from earthly constraints. If I have a responsibility to honor your legacy, the least you could do is show up as a sparrow.
The garden brings me no joy. It’s hot and your seven kaftans don’t smell like you anymore. They reek of that cheap detergent Ross picked up. You were always so sensitive to chemicals. Everything except that God awful Opium by Yves Saint Laurent . I’ll stare at the bathroom door from which the kaftans hang and ponder this discrepancy for hours. You were always such an enigma. Not that, but now this, honey– this is okay.
At work a colleague is speaking. Amanda. Amanda goes on about lip fillers. Amanda shows me pictures of nail art and Fendi knock-offs. It feels cruel that I spend more waking hours with Amanda than I do any other being. Where is my compassion? I can’t seem to locate it– almost as if it fell out of my bag. But I’m boring as well. Amanda doesn’t care that I see God in trees or find solace by the sea. Amanda drinks Red Bull, I cry in the toilet. What does it matter if you’re gone? Besides, I could learn from Amanda. Amanda is the walking embodiment of appreciation. Pumpkin Spice in a latte, how a coat gracefully falls on a wooden hanger– a new brand of breath mints. It’s actually incredible what life does to Amanda. Maybe I should have taken pleasure in breath mints when you were here. That would have lifted us both up. If I could have just dropped the state of the world for a hot second and talked about anything but.
On really bad days I head for the stationery room and pretend to do things. It’s shocking how many hours you can spend “organizing” the same stack of notebooks. Today everyone is working from home so I meander. Linger. Stare at your ring with the Coral stone. It just doesn’t feel like “you”. Even with the acrylics. Tomorrow I’ll wear your necklace with the giant balls instead.
“Why don’t we ever have raw honey in this office?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s really frustrating.”
“Did you put a request in?”
“Three times.”
I keep stumbling into “real life” conversations that pull me further and further away. Can feel you in my bones giving me that look. It silently screams what are you doing? What do you want? Why do you give your power away so easily? In my mind we duke it out. Most people are just doing the best they can, I say. But you’re not having it. We have a back and forth about the true meaning of success where you insist my current definition is shallow, that external validation means squat if I’m not right with myself.
And then, a shift.
It’s after work on a Tuesday evening, and a small face is vying for my attention. Instead of showing up as a sparrow, you weave your way into the warm, clammy hand of this child. You whisper this life is never going to be what I want, but that it may give me what I need. You stress redemption is on the other side of shame. You remind me not to neglect my plants. That I should hug my body. Share, you say. Share everything. Scoop up this giant mystery with both hands and marvel at how stunning, intense, and horrendous it truly is. No matter how inconsequential my life feels, you beg me to trust that the human heart is a masterpiece. Whether it be our species or another, the world will one day make sense again because of how I listen, how I take stock, and how I didn’t kill that spider. You tell me to compliment my sister and mean it. That I should try and make Ross laugh every day. That I must let my heart break repeatedly until it shatters every joyous memory into the stunning ether of eternity. You lift my face towards the sun as this child now dances around me.
Mama. Mama. Mama, I love you so.
Excerpts from
Essays & Short Stories
“He closed his eyes remembering their first date. How she had reached for his hand despite hers being sweaty. Kissed him open mouthed after garlic. Allowed him to caress her legs stubbly with hair. Leigh was honest in a way other girls were not, and her honesty, sweet as it was, filled him with a fear he didn’t want around. There had been gratitude as well. She didn’t let her love for Jesus put a kibosh on premarital sex. She also had flawless feet, rare cases of morning breath, and never embarrassed him in crowds. Her observations were interesting, sometimes funny, even hilarious. She could take the edge off any situation, had a talent for making people trust themselves, people who would hate her if only they didn’t like her so much. The ground would always meet his feet with Leigh by his side, but at twenty-one, this equaled death. The earth should be splitting in two. He should be wrestling angels, good and bad. An apocalypse not helpful, becoming dust not the goal, not the goal at all, but to bear witness right before the apocalypse, this was the thing.”
— Iowa, short fiction by Anne Adams
“You have been on my mind as we gear up for Thanksgiving and directly after, what would have been your 56th birthday. There are so many things to ruminate on, but what grabs me the most was your joie de vivre. Your zest for life. Your intolerance for Debbie Downers. Wherever there was a party, you were there. Someone or something to celebrate, you were there. You were a yes person which is why you had more lifelong friendships than any other human I know.
This time of year conjures up a lot. The good, the bad, sometimes the ugly. But mostly the good. So many times in the past I questioned your smile-- if it came from a true source of happiness or a plea to please don't go there. Now I understand it was a choice. A choice to be joyful, to be playful. To marvel at all the beauty instead of over analyzing every hiccup. There are so many wonderful things you taught me and continue to teach me but honoring that inner child who only wants to love and marvel and play-- this is the teaching that will stay with me forever. Through the love of Ross, family, friends new and old, from mentors who have entered my life at the perfect time, through you and our firecracker of a Mama, I am taking little Annie Banani wherever I go. We walk hand in hand and are starting to say yes. We laugh, play, and cuddle. We cry when we need to, but mostly we stare at each other in awe. I know this is thanks to God, you, Mom, the stars in the sky. Life is magic and it always was, always will be. So, Dearest, in true Wendy fashion I am showing up to the party. I am dancing the jig and lighting all the lights. I am celebrating my one precious life. Thank you for leading me out of the desert. For replacing the false stories in my heart with love, compassion, and forgiveness. With magic. Pure, unadulterated MAGIC.”
—Wendy, can you hear me? Essay by Anne Adams
“By the time she brought the food over, they still hadn’t spoken. They needed quiet, needed a relief. Relief of not having to do, be, or say anything. Where the only requirement was to enjoy some pancakes. To eat fast the way men who were going places did. Confident but in a hurry for better things. And the sun was out, and it was the weekend before Thanksgiving, and Dad looked healthy. Easy. And he wondered how he could love someone so much. Someone who barely looked at him. Someone he hardly knew.”
— The Boy, short fiction by Anne Adams
“For years I skated by while others had to navigate unthinkable circumstances. While I was very good at commiserating, I never listened. Not really. Not in a way that connected me to them. And while I genuinely empathized, it was always from a place far, far away. Detached and separate. I put people in boxes where their lives unfolded in certain ways because of x, y, and z. I never understood what a privilege it was to have someone reach out to me, to choose me as a safe space during the darkest of times. These moments never felt sacred or vital, just depressing and "gosh, really sad". Now that the curve ball has finally been thrown at my family after years of smooth sailing, I am astounded by how much beauty there is despite the pain. Yes, I am sad and at times angry by how events have unfolded, and with all due respect I do not subscribe to this idea of "no regrets". I have plenty. But what is starting to creep in bit by bit is this unwavering gratitude. For my amazing partner Ross who lifts me up and sees me-- TRULY sees me every day. For his incredible family who treat me like one of their own. For my friends new and old who call and text and call again until they get an answer. For my brother Bill who has consistently helped our family get from point A to point B and every other point for the last two years with a dignity and poise I can't even begin to describe. For my father who is my best friend, who heals me every day with our two hour FaceTime calls. Who still manages to laugh at my crap jokes even when his heart is broken. For my fierce and talented mother who taught others how to bet on themselves. For my sister Wendy who owned every room she ever entered... who knew how to celebrate the gift of being alive no matter the weather. Even when it became clear her end was fast approaching, my sister saw life as a reason to celebrate. When I remember her courage in the face of the inevitable... that she still chose to smile and show up when just breathing itself took every ounce of strength she had, I can't help but sit back in awe and say thank you over and over and over to Mark and Angela and Shelley and Laura and every human who surrounded her with love and light. Life is beautiful and hard and at times down right atrocious, but miracle is the only word that comes to mind when I think of how we got here. Of what we will do with the time we have, and how we plan on making the world a little bit lighter, a little more palatable for those who will come after. Death no longer scares me. It is living a life where the small things don't hit home. Where remembering someone's smell or voice or laugh seems neither here nor there. I want to feel loss as if I have truly loved, and these days I am starting to believe that my love for everyone around me is off the charts. I am loving others in a genuine way and gratefully allowing them to love me in return. I am starting to get (I think, I hope) what this whole being alive thing is really about.”
—Beautiful. Hard. Downright Atrocious, Essay by Anne Adams
“Dear Love,
What would you have me know today?
Pumpkin. Here is the truth that will never go away-- you are going to die same as everyone else. I know your fear. It's why I wear your trauma with you, to remind you I am here, now, forever and always. Your mom got cancer and died. Your sister got cancer and died. This does not mean you will get cancer (however, I can confirm you will still die at some point) and it does not promise that you won't get cancer (which, if you do, you might survive, until like everyone else, you eventually die).
All I can promise you is that those years filled with pain, fear, sorrow, despair were the making of you, not the breaking of you. They taught you the only weapon you have in your defenseless fight against death is to truly live while you are here. Stare at the twinkle lights in your English cottage. Hug on your incredible partner who has chosen to do life with YOU! Think of the internal work you show up for daily. Give yourself a high five for the first draft of a novel that after two and half years is actually becoming a full-fledged reality. Give thanks for the North Sea and the new friends who have embraced you as their own, for your family who is still hanging in there for better or worse. This, Baby Girl is the big V the wise sages keep going on about. Ultimate, raw, complete, all encompassing Vulnerability. Do not back away from it, Dearest. Breathe into your Vulnerability daily as if your very life depended on it (which it does, btw). I know it can be scary, but remember my hand is always on the back of your neck, stroking as gently as I can every fibre of reassurance into every cell of your being.
What can I say, Pumpkin? This up and down and all around without ever really knowing where you began or where you will end (if an end even exists) is just part of the deal. But you can do it! When you get scared remember all the incredible humans who face the impossible and still find the words, who still reach out to others, who still marvel at the magnificence of a rose. Think of all those belly laughs from people who are facing what you could never imagine-- let their rising from the ashes be a testament to the power of resilience. Death comes for us all-- but our superpower is that we get to improvise until then-- we get to have agency in our lives and this means you, my little pooper scooper. So, go! Bask in your freedom. Honor the big V that greets you each and every morning. Offer it a cuppa and thank it for filling your one precious life with so much meaning. Ask it to remind you that going down the rabbit hole of all the ways we can die is a tedious, useless battle. Ask it to remind you of all the times you have been brave and chosen hope instead. Have it point to me so I can give you a little wink to remind you that your one precious life, if you let it, will be one for the ages.
I love you now and always.”
