I can't seem to escape these mistakes.

Like a man who fishes in empty lakes,

Every moment I'm haunted; morning, noon, and night.

My dreams bring with them no delight.

The darkness seeps in, like winter on roses,

And with every pondering, my open door closes.

I feel trapped in a box, with no hole to breathe.

Washing blood from my hands, but holding the sheath.

They creep in my mind, and tap on my skull.

They won't let me fall to a daydreamy lull.

I try to get out but they pull me back in.

They burst in my eyes all over again.

It seems I'll never escape these mistakes,

Like a man who fishes in empty lakes.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

If I were free, what would I do tomorrow?

A conundrum, to be sure.

Would I rest?

Perhaps I would rest.

Perhaps I would stay in bed and order food and lounge in a way I've never been able to accomplish in my short life. Perhaps I would go to a spa, get a haircut, paint my nails-- do all of those things neglected in the name of paying the bills-- neglected in the prison that is paycheck to paycheck.

For surely, I am in that prison now... but what if tomorrow really were different? What then? Would I waste even one more day shunning my heart's desires? What if tomorrow, I could go to the grocery store without accounting for every apple? Without putting back the healthy food and replacing it with cheap cereal? Am I thinking too small? I suppose I am.

But.

It's hard to imagine a life free of such petty strife.

But tomorrow, if I were truly free, what would I do?

Would I rest?

No.

I would not rest. I would not.

I would live.

I would live dangerously well.

Most probably, tomorrow, I would give my house away. I would give away the meaningless things collected in a quest of owning. I would pay off the debt. I would buy ten thousand acres of land and give it back to the people. I would build that sanctuary for single mothers I always talked about. I would plant wildflowers and evergreens and potatoes. I would commission artwork to decorate the walls of my life. I would stay up late talking with the friends I have neglected in the name of getting by. I would fund a volunteer fire department. I would sit with my grandmother. I would write the story of her life, as I've always promised to do.

I would finally, finally, make good on everything I ever said I would do.

I would unbreak the little lies that I never meant to utter.

I would live.

And then, I would journey. I would see cathedrals and mountaintops and chase waterfalls until my feet were sore from clambering over slippery stones. I would learn French and German and Chinese. I would go to South America and polish up my Spanish. I would speak to people a world away from me in their own languages. I would immerse myself in cultures separate from my own.

I would read everything.

I would write.

And write.

And write.

I would go horseback riding with my daughters and dig up dinosaur bones with my son. I would lay languid, awash in sunset beams alongside my husband.

I would eat. I want to taste the world.

I would swim with dolphins.

I would run.

I would feel the wind in my hair.

I would laugh.

And maybe, perhaps, I would be happy. Truly happy. Truly myself for the first time ever.

I would give because doing so wouldn't chip away at the heart of me. I would give and give and give because I wouldn't have to make sure that some was left over for me anymore.

I could be enough.

There would be enough-- for everyone-- if only tomorrow would come.

But, when you're barely surviving from moment to moment...there is no tomorrow.

They call you a loveliness, but I don’t think that’s true.

Yes, you look splendid in your spotted red coats, with wings poking out in a hint of black lace, but your splendor does hide something wicked beneath.

You are a monster, truly.

A devourer.

A cannibal.

I release you into my garden, not because I like to look upon your colors, but so you will destroy.

I want you to feast on other small green, and white, and red little bodies.

I want you to devour their young until they are obliterated in my small corner of the world.

Oh, how I hate a purposeless insect.

But you are not that.

You are my wicked little friends.

You are the only creature with six legs permitted to crawl along my skin without being promptly batted at or, more likely, murdered without a second thought.

Your friend the mantis is also allowed to live, but never to touch, for her devouring spirit is not cloaked in pretty robes of red– her monstrosity is plain to see. She need not hide her true intent, being such a large, battle-adorned creature. But you are small: lovely.

You must be unassuming as you crawl across fingertips and freckled cheeks, for if one knew your true nature, surely such a little thing would not be allowed to live? To feast on soft bodies?

Yes, you look lovely, but the red on your back may as well be blood.

It is at the very least armor.

Perhaps that is why in every iteration of your name, they call you lady.

A pretty thing.

Unassuming armor to hide a hungry monster.

No.

You in mass form are not a loveliness, but rather a lethality– at least to the other garden bugs.

But.

I do know you. Deeply. You and I are not so different, are we?

That is why when I let you out, I found myself alight in genuine surprise…

Because I did not think: Monster. Beast. Cannibal. Destroyer.

I did not smile my usual wicked grin at the havoc you would unleash upon my garden foes.

Instead, as you crawled across the fingertips and forearms of my own little ladies, I could think of but one word:

Loveliness.

I've been too distraught to write.

I'm physically sickened by the thoughts that run rampant in my mind-- to put them in ink feels like an oozing wound added to the thousand paper cuts. I didn't ever expect it to happen this way, truly... I didn't expect to be slowly chipped away at, pushed away, contempted until I returned in kind, only to have an ax land on my neck when my head was turned the other direction. I didn't know I was headed for the gallows—perhaps a life of servitude, yes, but never execution.

How can we mend when you've made me the villain?

The Inside of your Mother's Day Card challenge winner is....

Drum roll, please!

.....

Dr. Semicolon, with entry Mother's Day.

As usual, it was incredibly challenging to pick and I strongly suggest you read all of these challenge entries.

https://theprose.com/challenge/14007

Dr. Semicolon wins this one because he brought utter poetry to the table and blew me away.

I should also mention ChrisSadhill, AlisonAudrey, H1, and Rausch for just breaking my heart.

As always, I could write about each and every one of these challenge entries for a different reason, but every last one moved me. Thank you for indulging me on Mother's Day. Thank you for the entries and the beautiful words.

See you at the next challenge,

Pearl

This hill was steep as fuck, and it'd been five years since I last climbed. The path wound in a spiral to the edge of the cliff: The Craigs, they called them. As I neared the summit, a peace settled over me. This was it. This is where I belong. I stepped to the edge and closed my eyes. I breathed in the scent of heather and dew, rumbling of the pages of history screaming welcome home beloved one. Welcome home. The ground shook underfoot and the world spun faster in the wake of my return.

And then, I fell.

Mom,

To say you are my rock would be the understatement of the century.

You are no simple stone.

You are my fortress, my safe place, my walls against the siege of everyday life.

You are no simple stone.

You are the garden in which I can whisper the secret longings of my soul, where I pour my pities and flowers grow– where I sing dreams, you give butterfly wings.

You are no simple stone.

You are the family room: the comfortable place to lay my head after a day that just won’t seem to end– the warmth of soft blankets around my shoulders– the laughter of quiet conversations over coffee cups.

You are no simple stone.

You are the kitchen, where dancing turns even the most miserable of tasks into joy. The place where my spirit is fed just as much as my body– the place where the everyday ordinariness of potatoes might just become a delectable dish.

You are no simple stone.

Mom– You make this world home.

I threw my body to the ground and wept.

This isn't me. This isn't me. THIS ISN'T ME!

I tried to convince myself, but it was futile.

Maybe some other day this wasn't me. Maybe some other day I was that fearless viking warrior queen: tall and proud and lacking even the ability to shed a tear. Maybe some other day I was a woman who evoked feelings of fear in others-- a woman who men shrank away from when she stood at her full height-- whose shoulders were set wide-- whose eyes squinted in permanent cat-like glare, angry at the world and anyone who might dare to tell her no. Maybe some other day. Maybe every other day. But not today.

Today I was small. Today I wanted to curl into the caverns of my heart like a snail retreating into its shell. Today I would bargain with God almighty. Today I was broken.

Broken by three words:

Multi. Organ. Failure.

God. Please. God PLEASE. Please. I know, God. We don't bargain. I know.

But God, please. Please don't take her from me.

Please.

Please don't let her die.

I will do anything.

I was afraid. Horrifically afraid.

I wanted to throw up and then hurl myself out the 3rd story window.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to melt into nothingness.

I wanted to drown my tears in the folds of her Minnie mouse nightgown and never emerge again.

But I didn't.

I hid in the bathroom for all of five minutes, threw myself to the ground, silently wept, bargained her life for mine, and then wiped the snot off my face and pasted on a smile.

I climbed into the hospital bed next to her, held her, stroked her flaccid hair.

I whispered in her ear. I begged her to wake up. I promised she could have that kitten she'd been wanting. I promised we'd make those necklaces she'd asked for. I promised the extra story before bed, and the extra kiss, and the one more drink of water. I promised her four candles on her birthday cake this summer.

I promised to never forget again.

I would never forget again the value of her life to me.

I held her all night, flinching at every monitor beep, praying, pleading, forsaking every physical and mental need. When the sun was slicing through the curtains, I got out of the bed and stood.

Enough. God. I have had enough.

Pass this cup from me.

Use me.

Heal her.

I laid my hands on her small body. They nearly covered her completely. My hands are large and she was so, so small.. barely three years old.

I felt power coursing in my veins. The exhaustion of the last two weeks fell away as the shafts of sunlight burned into the small room, enveloping us both in blinding light.

Oh Lord, my God.

You who are able.

Let not my will, but your will be done.

It felt as though my hands were afire, and the moment stretched into eternity. A peace that passes understanding flooded my spirit.

And when I opened my eyes...

She was smiling up at me.

It came across the pager at 2:36am. Fuck. I'd forgotten to turn the sound off and the ber, ber, boop, ber, booooop sang with a deafening blare in the tiny cave of a break room. Jeremiah glared at me from his makeshift chair bed on the other side of the room before his pager started buzzing on the table too. "God dammit," he mumbled, swinging his legs down and propping his elbows up to see what call had both of our pagers going at this time of night. Night shift was normally slow, and though we weren't 'allowed' to sleep, it was expected that those of us who were in school would spend the evenings studying in between the few lingering room transfers. Then it'd be off to bed ourselves, rolling uncomfortable chairs together, resting heads on tables, leaning against lockers, and drooling on ourselves. Sometimes the supervisor would even skulk off to the supply room and nap on the gurney. We couldn't get away with that, but no one was about to report him either.

It was evident that is what Matt had been doing when he burst through the door, interrupting Jeremiah's crotchety grumbles with one of his own, "It's a 57. Up on 6 Tower... The motorcyclist." My heart sank at that. We'd all been rooting for the motorcyclist. Poor guy was 26. He'd lay in his ICU bed with monitors beeping in a quiet symphony of depression. He was probably the most beautiful man I'd ever seen, despite the fact that he'd knocked out all of his teeth in the crash that had landed him here. He was going to be paralyzed from the waist down, but last week he'd wiggled his toes. He'd been making progress... How could this have happened now?

"Man, that's sad. I was really rooting for him," I said, and they both nodded in agreement.

"So was I--" said Matt,"--are you sure you're up for it?"

I could hear Jeremiah roll his eyes from across the room. I fixed him with a glare before replying to Matt, "Of course. I know you guys worry, but 57s really don't bother me."

Matt just shrugged, "Well that's weird, but okay." He looked at Jeremiah as an afterthought, "What about you? You good?"

"Duh," Jeremiah smirked and patted him on the shoulder on his way out the door. I followed behind. We stopped in the hall and looked at the pagers again.

"Well, it's on 6 tower, so we won't need the Hoyer lift. Off to the morgue then, right?"

"Yup."

We started down the winding corridors of the hospital basement, finally arriving at the morgue. With his hand on the doorknob, Jeremiah paused and lowered his voice to a whisper, "Are you sure you're good?"

I nodded, but he continued anyway, "It's okay if you're not. 57s are tough for everyone." I wish they'd just stop with this, but I knew it wouldn't end anytime soon. I was the youngest person they'd ever hired in this department: 18, pretty, and definitely only hired because the head of department was a perv and I'd worn a ridiculous, low-cut red dress to my interview.

I playfully slugged him on the shoulder before answering, "For the love of God, Jer, don't you start, too. You know my heart is blacker than the lot of you. Let's go."

He slugged me back and smirked, "freak." Jeremiah had shot his shot with me earlier in the year, taken being turned down like a champ, and formed a unique, tenuous friendship in the wake of the rejection. Jeremiah was good people.

I shoved him aside, scanned my key card, and stepped into the Morgue. My nose crinkled. It smelled like Wexcide (the hospital’s industrial disinfectant) and rot in here. The smells were by far my least favorite part of running a 57 call. Jeremiah made a gagging sound and grabbed for the Morgue gurney. It had a special tent that went over the top. It was tasteless if you ask me. I think covering the bodies in a sheet would have been classier… would have drawn less attention, too. Everyone knew what was under the bulky tent, anyway. Jer lifted the flap. “Good. No one inside.” He unlocked the brakes and I held the door while he wheeled it out into the hallway. “Did I ever tell you about the time fucking Donna left someone on there? Wheeled it all over the hospital… I already had the new patient in the sling when we discovered him there. God. The smell…”

I chuckled, but shooshed him as we rounded the corner. You couldn’t be caught talking like that in the hallways… even the basement bowels of the hospital weren’t safe for that kind of talk. Only our little breakroom was a safe place for that… and it depended on who was on shift. Matt and Jeremiah were by far the best companions for candid conversations. I suppose I was, too.

We made our way to the elevator and punched the 6. The hospital was quiet this time of night… terribly quiet, and it wasn’t hard to imagine ghosts walking the halls alongside you. I knew they were there. I could feel them, smell them. They touched me as I stepped along. The ghosts were especially prevalent around the entrance to the ICU. A thickness always hung in the air there (and in 3 West, the hospice cancer ward), even during the day. Jer and I both shivered as we stood at the doors, waiting for the charge nurse to pick up her side of the phone. “We’re here for the 57,” Jeremiah spoke in low tones, the reality settling into our bones. We were here for the 57. Here for the motorcyclist. Here, because he was dead in his bed. I swallowed.

The doors slid open and we made our way to the room. Neither of us needed to double-check the number. Jeremiah and I both had special rounding privileges in ICU. We’d been coming up three times a shift to help reposition the patients for the last six months. We both knew the motorcycle man. Intimately. We’d held his naked body up on many occasions, and whispered jokes in his ear to make light of the situation, while the nurses cleaned his backside. I could feel the vibrations of his laughter in my limbs as we stood outside of his room. The charge nurse came over, speaking softly, “He’s all cleaned up and ready to go. His belongings bag is on the chair. Let me know if you need anything.” She looked for a moment too long at his door before turning away.

“Wait– Ava,” I stopped her, “I don’t normally ask… but… what happened? I rounded on him yesterday…” I let my voice trail off. She knew what I was asking.

“He… Well, nothing. He…” she had tears in her eyes, “He found out. About the little girl in the car he hit… and… He just gave up.”

“Oh.” Jeremiah and I spoke in unison. Ava nodded and turned away again. This time we let her go.

I slid the door to his room open and we rolled the gurney inside. It was my turn to check on Jeremiah. He acted tough, but we both knew I handled 57s better than he. His breath was coming fast.

“Jer–,” I said, interrupting his daze. His eyes snapped to my face, “look at me. We’ve got this– I’ve got you. Follow my lead.” He swallowed and nodded.

I pulled back the curtain. The motorcycle man was covered in a sheet. It had to be removed to put him in the lift. I pulled it back, and his crystal blue eyes stared up at me, devoid of soul. If you don’t believe in souls, spend some time around dead people. You will. We’re different after we die. We are decidedly not there anymore, and what’s left…for lack of more eloquent language… is a sack of meat. These thoughts were interrupted by Jeremiah’s gag. “Go rub some hand sanitizer under your nose, Jer. I’ll start putting the sling under him.” Jeremiah did as he was told, and was back in a minute, apologetic as we maneuvered the body onto the sling. He stood by the bed with a hand on the patient as I walked across the room to slide the ceiling lift over. There was no reason to stand bedside, but training was engrained. You didn’t leave a patient alone with the bedrails down. I brought the lift over and watched as Jer adjusted the straps one last time. He leaned across the patient… okay, he leaned on the patient a little… and chaos erupted.

The body let out a gut rending moan– and sat up. In panic, Jeremiah yelled, “Shit, fuck… fuckity shit!” and shoved the body back down, only to have it sit back up. This cycle repeated several times, before I made my way to the bedside. Ava burst through the door seconds later, enraged, “What the hell is going on in here–” she screamed in a whisper, before her eyes processed the scene in front of her, “-oh.” She stepped back outside, but popped her head back in, “I’m sorry. Just be quiet, okay.”

“--But,” Jeremiah started.

“--He’s definitely dead. I checked,” she smirked, “Just gasses. Happens sometimes.”

She closed the door tightly as Jer and I each pressed down on the patient’s shoulders, keeping him in place on the bed. Our eyes locked over top of him and we both burst into a fit of insane laughter. We made our best effort to keep the snickering to a minimum as we went about our work, but every time the body moved, we’d start up again. I couldn’t look at Jeremiah the entire walk back down to the morgue, because when I did, I’d laugh again… and one doesn’t laugh when doing the solemn duty of transporting a body.

We made the rest of the transfer without further excitement, uncovering the patient in the morgue to find him partially sat up, but our earlier giggles had lost their luster. Jer gagged again as we opened the cooler and rolled out the metal pan. We didn’t speak as we craned the body in, but we silently agreed to treat him with the reverence he’d deserved earlier. Jer cleaned the tent and gurney while I zipped the motorcycle man into the body bag. He was still the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, though his cheeks had begun to sink, and the crystal blue of his eyes now had the unmistakable look of death in them. I touched one black curl on his head before I zipped him up all the way, “I’m sorry you stopped fighting,” I whispered, letting the curl spring away from my finger slowly. Jer came up behind me, body brushing along the back of me, too close, but a comfort nonetheless.

“Such a shame,” Jer said, “I really liked him.” I nodded and zipped the bag shut. We rolled the tray in together and latched the door.

We stood for a moment in the damp stink of the morgue before Jer slung his arm around my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around his waist and we made our way back to the safety of our little breakroom in the basement. Once inside, we sat down across from each other and laid our heads in our hands on the table. Jer looked up at me, “You know, Whit… You’re my favorite person to go on 57s with. Sorry, if that sounds weird.”

I propped my head up and smiled, “It does, but I get it. Same, Jer. Same.”

We looked at each other for a long time, words flying unspoken in the air between us.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said and laid his head back down.

I brushed my hand along his shoulder, “I’m glad you’re here, too.” I left my hand on his shoulder and put my head down too. We fell asleep like that with our heads on the table and our hearts in our throats.

Together, and glad to be there.

______________________________

Yes, this is a true story. This job was probably my favorite job ever. I worked as a hospital transport tech when I was in college. Code 57 was just a small part of the job. We more often transported alive patients to and from in-hospital appointments. We often transported samples and tissues (remind me to tell you about the time we lost the box of eyeballs). We were also required to respond to Codes (combative patients, CPR, lift assists– remind me to tell you about the sock and the psych ward). We made rounds in the ICU (remind me to tell you about the time my hand got lost in a pressure ulcer). It was a terribly exciting job and my co-workers were beyond fabulous. I am confident I would still be working there if I had not sustained a back injury that prevented me from doing lift assists. My friends who still work at the hospital often ask me when I’ll be back, and it’s been over a decade. So… an unsavory job? Yes, indeed. The perfect job for a freak like me? Indeed, as well.

Holy cow.

Let me start by saying that these challenge entries blew me away. I thoroughly enjoyed reading every last one of them. There were at least four tied for first in my mind. That said, a winner must be chosen.

The winner of this challenge is...

Mazzy with her post: Hug on a plate

If you haven't read it yet, you should. This piece won because I smiled the entire time I read it. Not many writers can do that, and Mazzy seems to have a gift for it. Beautiful work, Mazzy.

Ferryman also wrote a piece entitled Saturdays that sucked me in and made me feel like I was sitting in the diner's booth, that bitter-sweetness of words unspoken hanging in the air. Excellent piece.

rlove327 wove words in his usual brilliant way with his piece called Breaking Bread and made me wish to be invited to his retirement dinner. I could feel the echo of a life well lived in the air of the yet-to-occur dinner party.

WhiteWolfe32 wrote something about Frozen Burritos that was relatable in the most painful, beautiful way.

And last, but not least, SamWebster posted his work in the last few days of the challenge, and boy, am I glad he did. His post Communion was simply magnificent. A revelation. It is something I have no doubt I will read again. I enjoyed every last sentence.

There are others I could mention, but I think I'll stop there. Just excellent work typical of Prose. You guys are incredible, truly. If you haven't read these yet you should: https://theprose.com/challenge/13839

Thank you all for sharing your work with me.