Grief, with a mind and heart of its own, comes when it comes. Today it came with tears on my cheeks before I was even awake. My wet pillow, that rivulet of snot that comes with deep crying, my dear husband alarmed, reaching to comfort me.

“Oh, honey,” he says, “Rose wouldn’t want you to be sad. What would she say to you right now?”

“I miss you, too.”

“I think she would tell you it was time for her to go.”

“It was, I know that, but… ‘I miss you, too.’ That is what she would say.”

Rose of my life, the scent of our ever-abiding connection lingers still.

I looked over at the clock, hoping it might be time for a break. It was 1:11 pm.

111 — an angel number! I had to make a wish.

If you don’t know what angel numbers are, the ancient Babylonians, mathematicians extraordinaire, believed numbers and numerical patterns are the language of the Gods, and hold sacred principles and messages. The ancient Egyptians used sacred numerical principles in the construction of most important structures. The I Ching in China is based on the belief that numbers reveal hidden truths and bestow spiritual guidance.

Who can argue with all that history?

So, I wished for the universe to help me open up my writing process again. Now, nothing magical happened right that second, but I did decide it was time for a break. So I grabbed a bite of lunch and then headed out to my garden.

There is nothing like getting in the dirt to ground me and make me forget my worries and fears. As I was digging around, I saw a little flash of something, and when I looked up, there he was, saying hello!

He had landed on the wire fencing around my new seedlings. You can’t quite tell from this shot, but he only had one big jumping leg! If you have followed me and you know about my book A One-Legged Cricket, you’ll know why I took this as a sign.

Much in the same way I’m grieving the loss of my mother, I wrote Cricket at a time when I was also grieving. My grandmother had died in my arms, my birth father had been murdered, and I had become seriously ill and lost my job. It was a very dark time in my life. A little cricket appeared to me then, on the steering wheel of my car. He only had one big jumping leg. I identified with his loss.

I believe he told me his name was Ulysses O. Niveus, though no words were actually spoken. I felt sorry for him so I rescued him and put him in a garden barrel on my deck. I never saw him again, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. That magical ‘what if’ started in my mind, and a story was born. Writing the story and listening to the wit and wisdom of the mysterious little cricket named Ulysses brought me back to life. Healing my heart, and opening myself to life again began with that cricket. The story was a gift to me, and it transformed my life as an artist.

If you haven’t read A One-Legged Cricket yet or met Ulysses, here’s a little teaser to intrigue you.

I wrote these poems as my mother slipped away just two years ago. Happy heavenly 99th birthday today. I am forever grateful I was born to you!

momma

first sound, your beating heart

rhythmic drumming, something’s coming

warm darkness, floating gently

bubble bursting, sudden squeezing, pulling me into the night

first touch; silken skin like my own, safe again

hands holding, hugs enfolding,

laughter kindling joyous laughter,

beginnings and endings, shared history, lessons learned

time flies too quickly; not yet, I cry

cheeks, once pudgy and soft, cradle cheeks now chiseled bone

tears rolling down; caught between the rock of your enduring love

and the jagged hard place of your dwindling light

The Gift

We only have a few days left, sweetheart

Your transcendent voice cuts through the night

Preparing me, comforting me

We are so near the bend in the road

Everything is tingling now

Awake in the morning light

It’s a lot like labor, baby

Your last whispered words, before you take flight

Where are you, I cry

I feel a flutter in my heart

Right here, right here

Right here inside

An echo, a vision, a snapshot of before

Good morning my child, I’m so glad you are here

Becoming born, becoming dead

Maybe just maybe there is more

You left your body suddenly, so inanimate and cold

Your vibrancy headed for parts untold

Like a bold shooting star speeding bright across the sky

My little light struggling, aching to grab on for the ride

Grief engulfs me, even in my sleep,

Dissolving me like a sand castle

In a wave breaking on the beach

You are so far, far beyond my reach

The Gods are pacing, my heart is racing

I cannot quiet my soul

Untethered now, adrift, and alone

Your absence is creating a deep and ever-widening hole

A swarm of dragonflies dance above your grave

And all around my fallen heart

Symbols of transformation, harbingers of change

Maybe just maybe there is more

How will I find you?

In a flower, in a song?

Will we ever come back

to this hallowed ground?

A little salamander skin found

Left behind as it journeyed on

Perfectly shaped, scales glistening in the sun

Becoming dead, becoming born, maybe just maybe there is more

This is not the end, just a new moment in time

Birth into death into newness, again and again

Now is for you, child, and yes

Yes, my love, there is more

Five years ago, she gave me a box filled with precious mementos she had gathered together especially for me. It contained photographs, letters, documents, trinkets, and other possessions that were most dear to her heart.

I have since gone through the box many, many times. I am always reduced to tears when I do. Tears of joy, of longing, of grief, of gratitude, and of discovery when I happen upon something I had not noticed before.

I wrote Nick of Time because about a year after she died, I was going through the box for the zillionth time and I found a tear in the lining of my baby book. I looked inside and found a plain white envelope that contained her marriage license to my father. It explained a lot. It helped me make sense of the complexities, tribulations, and demise of her marriage to my father. I can more fully appreciate a comment she made near the end of her life. She told me the best decision she ever made was to have me. I now have a deeper understanding of what she meant. There is something wonderful about knowing that against all odds, and we faced many of them, she chose me.

NICK OF TIME

August 30, 1947

Rosemarie Cecilia Souza, watermelon-belly-pregnant and just 19 years old, is seated on a bench in a courtroom in San Leandro, California. She is wearing a white peasant blouse with a scooped, ruffled eyelet neckline, a very loose navy-blue skirt, and shiny patent leather heeled sandals. A hairband covered with white hydrangea blossoms holds back her wild mane of blue-black hair. Her big, walnut-brown eyes are blinking back tears.

It’s Saturday morning; the courthouse is empty. On the bench next to Rose is her grandmother, VoVo, the matriarch of Rose’s immigrant Portuguese family; next to Vo is Rose’s mother, Cecilia, widowed when Rose was 12. With her green eyes and red hair, she noticeably stands out in her family. Beside Cecilia is her brother, Rose’s Uncle Peter, a man of few words and a decorated war hero; he is a stoic presence. Next to Peter is Rose’s brother Tony, the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Tony is 16 and never afraid to speak his mind. Last on the bench is Bettye Tooley, Rose’s best friend and soon-to-be maid of honor. Bettye is as Irish as Rose is Portuguese. She is wearing a plain grey skirt, a pink fluffy sweater, and a pair of red-and-white Converse high-tops. Everyone on the bench is somber. They are Rose’s guardians at the gate.

Finally, Vo announces, “Of course, he isn’t going to show up.”

Cecilia leans forward, winks at Rose, and says, “Don’t worry, honey bunch, he’ll get here; he promised.”

Tony snaps, “His promises are like big ole farts.” He pinches his nose.

Bettye gives Tony a big shove with her elbow and then looks down at her shoes. She isn’t wearing shiny shoes like Rose’s. She tucks her feet tightly under the bench.

The side door to the courtroom opens, and Judge Frank Da Silva enters. Rose frowns. Her jaw is set. “He’s not here yet, your honor. But he will be.”

The judge pulls out his pocket watch, eyes it, shrugs, and sits down on a bench on the other side of the courtroom.

Just then, Jim Macgenn, 23, a handsome, somewhat roguish Scot, with thick, curly wind-blown ginger hair and a wrinkled, half-tucked-in shirt, bursts through the door. He has a saxophone case in one hand and a bouquet of red roses in the other. Rose is relieved, but her brow is furrowed.

“You’re late. How could you…”

“Awwhh Ro, don’t be upset.” He sets the saxophone case down, tucks his shirt in, and then bows before her and hands her the bouquet. “I had to stop and get flowers for the Rose of my heart.” He smiles and pats her tummy gently. “You, me, and baby surprise here…well, today is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

Jim takes Rose’s hand and pulls her up from the bench and into a strong embrace. He kisses her intimately. Rose looks into Jim’s smiling face; her eyes fill with tears. She loves him so. She wants, with all her heart, to believe this day will make everything okay.

Vo stands and calls out to the judge, “Frank, I believe we are finally ready.”

Baby Surprise entered the world twelve days later on September 11, 1947.

The Big Ask is for A One-Legged Cricket. I’m committed to giving it the best chance of exposure I can. I’ve posted the book episodically on Substack, which included the Audible version, and received so many wonderful, supportive comments.

The Little Favor is if you are one of the folks who enjoyed reading or listening to it, and you have a few extra moments, would you post a review on Amazon? Amazon looks closely at the number of reviews a book receives, and the more it receives, the better, and the more Amazon will assist you in furthering your book’s reach.

During these trying times, I would love for Cricket to reach more people with its message of hope and new beginnings. Each review of the book is a step in that direction.

I have included the links in this note, so all you have to do is click and review whichever version you enjoyed. Please and thank you, I appreciate everyone who has read it.

My heart filled with joy. Everything about this note and the photo reminded me that if my words, my art can reach out and touch even one heart it is what I am here to do. The woman who sent this note, Rebby Fortune, is a beautiful soul, an amazingly talented writer and brilliant artist. I love and respect her work. She recently suffered a devastating loss. To know that my work has touched her heart and is helping her heal is the greatest gift I could ever receive. It is the reason I write.

I wrote A One-Legged Cricket when I was in a state of inconsolable grief. Too much had happened for one heart to hold. My father, my favorite uncle, and my beloved grandmother had all left this world in a short span of time. I withdrew from my life and my work. I absolutely could not write and for as far ahead as I could see there was no returning to it. Grief had overtaken me.

One day a little cricket appeared in my life. As I peered closely at him, I noticed he was missing one of his big jumping legs. As if it had been whispered, the name Ulysses came into my head. I reached out for him to climb onto my hand and he did. I took him out to some vegetable barrels on my deck, all the while thinking it would be impossible for him to survive without that leg. When I placed him in the vines he looked back at me with a piercing look and then disappeared into the greenery. I never saw him again.

I fell back into my despair. But something had shifted. I could not stop thinking about him. I could easily imagine the hardships he faced because of the loss of his leg, at a time when I could not face my own, at least not with any thoughts of overcoming them. I imagined him in all sorts of scenarios. They came so fast I started jotting them down. Before I knew it, a story emerged. My heart was beating in the right direction again and a healing was taking place. In giving voice to his story, I faced my own.

The name Ulysses came as a whisper but the little cricket has worn it well. His story has been an odyssey in so many ways. He seems to choose the people he reaches and it delights me when they share what he has meant to them. Has he ever been a best seller, or at the top of the New York Times Best Seller list? Not even for one moment. But does it matter? No. Because the reason I write is found in Rebby’s photo and her message. Seeing the book on her lap, as she settles in to enjoy the read and a special treat, makes my little writer’s heart skip a beat. Thank you R.F. for letting me know that this story about this little cricket touched your heart. This is the reason I write. ❤️

This cautionary sign should send a chill down the back of every American. Every citizen of the world. Think about what is happening here in our country. Read about it. Watch it. Do not look away. Do not believe that what you are seeing is not real. It is.

Last week in Minneapolis, a young woman was shot dead in her car. Renee Nicole Good. Say her name. Shot dead in her car in front of her wife for peacefully protesting I.C.E. raids in her city.

This week in St. Paul, a grandfather, a naturalized American citizen, was ripped from his home in his underwear and detained. ICE broke down his door, wrapped him in his grandson’s blanket, and then dragged him outside in the brutal winter cold.

In. His. Underwear.

Have we forgotten our history lessons? Are we secretly telling ourselves, “It couldn’t possibly happen again,” when it is happening right under our noses?

When is enough enough? Now is the only answer to that question. Now.

To say the least, I was thrilled. Excited. Honored. All those yummy emotions often precipitated by a joyful surprise. But when I was tasked with telling people about it, I fell into uncertainty. Does anyone even care? Did the book really deserve it? Worst of all, I’m not a real writer anyway. Why do I bother? I know these aren’t rational thoughts, but I couldn’t stop them. They sent me right into doom and gloom.

But the universe reminded me, lest I forget, that it can be benevolent sometimes, too. Two delightful events happened this week that changed my course. I asked Cricket’s narrator, Christin Ayotte, if she could help me get a teaser up on Social Media for the book since I don’t have the technical skill to do it. She said she would try, but she wasn’t sure she could do it either. She said she’d need a little time. Then, while I was cleaning up my desk, getting ready for AWR Book Camp, I came across a press release written for Cricket when it first came out. It said: “Ms. Macgenn, an established writer on women’s health issues, has found her voice in this, her debut novel. She went from hormones to the heart, a transition she describes as an odyssey, from writing about the health of a woman’s body to the expression of her spirit.”

When I read those words, I was filled with memories and affection for my book. I was moved to listen to it again myself. So I did. I remembered where I was in my life when I wrote it, deep in an almost paralyzing grief. I felt like all was lost. But writing the book showed me it wasn’t. It helped me heal.

This morning, Christin called me. She told me she thought she had figured out the teaser and how to post it. She was right, it’s perfect! I couldn’t wait to put it up on Instagram. You can listen to it here.

Before we got off the phone, Christin said, “You know, this book, this little cricket, is magic for both of us. It mirrors our lives. The struggles we have had with our art and creativity, and the joy we have both found in a new beginning, doing what we love! My heart swelled. Isn’t that why we write? To share our stories? To reach out through the ether and touch another’s life?

I’m sharing the episodes of A One-Legged Cricket again on Substack. It gives me joy and hope. I hope it does the same for you. If you listen to it or read it, please let me know. I’d love to hear from you.

Pottery teacher Julie Maxwell is living her dream life until the tragic death of her husband plunges her into an abyss of isolation and despair. Suddenly, a mysterious little cricket named Ulysses appears in her life. Does he actually talk to her?

Before long, it doesn’t matter whether he is make-believe or real. Julie comes to love his wit and determination, and together they embark on an inspiring journey through the storms of grief, the difficulties of letting go, and the uncertainty of starting over.

A One-Legged Cricket spins a yarn of magic realism that is a meditation on loss and recovery in a grown-up fairytale. It reminds us that laughter and joy can exist alongside heartbreak and sorrow and can help us heal.

This is an excerpt of the audiobook, narrated by Christin Ayotte on Audible

Thanksgiving Clouds

What if clouds were crowds

of beings coming by

like friends

watching, wondering, worrying, crying

Maybe we should welcome them

like family for the holidays

Invite them to join us

at the table

to talk

about what they see and

how they feel and

what they fear

Maybe we could do that too

with birds and trees

and animals and bees

on earth, in the sky, at sea

Ask them to tell us what they see

And how they feel and

what they fear

We have so many old traditions

passed down year after year

Celebrating this

Remembering that

With clouds, we could share

a new tradition

with sentience as

the why we gather

the what we celebrate

our universe, our planet

our only real home

The reason we are here

It was the night before Thanksgiving, 1972. I was in Berkeley, California, in an apartment too small for all the people I had coming for dinner. Rose was living in Tulsa, Oklahoma, with her new husband, preparing for her coming-out party with her new family and their friends. I was still angry with her for leaving me. I didn’t really know how to do Thanksgiving dinner without her. We had never spent holidays apart, ever. Thanksgiving was our favorite. This was going to be a stretch. We always prepared everything together. Competing, bargaining, arguing, laughing our butts off, and then hugging it out after dinner when everyone was happy, and the last dish was dry.

I don’t know why I wanted to serve Crème Brûlée for my first Thanksgiving without her. It didn’t matter that I had never made such a complicated dessert on my own before; I convinced myself I could do it. The first batch came out of the oven looking pretty good. A little too jiggly, maybe, but good. So, I spooned a nice layer of sugar on top and put them under the broiler to crisp them up and form that delicious, brittle crust of caramel. I can’t remember now if it was the phone that rang or that extra glass of Almaden Mountain Nectar I had while I was waiting, but when I opened the oven, the tops were burnt black and smoking. I burst into tears and called Rose immediately.

“Calm down,” she said. “It’s not the end of the world.” (one of her favorite sayings) “It’s going to be okay. You still have time to make another batch. Just toss those and let’s start over.”

She walked me through the instructions, and I took notes. I had just enough eggs and plenty of cream to go again. I thought I followed her directions exactly, but this time they looked like eggnog in the ramekins with charcoal briquets on top. I was shattered. In my haste, I had doubled the cream and rushed through the whisking.

“Never, never hurry the whisking,” I could hear her reminding me. It was too late to call again. I had to go to the store for more ingredients. I decided I would try again in the morning.

My phone rang at 6:00 the next morning.

“Are you okay, Chrissy? You didn’t call back.”

“It was another mess, Ma. A total failure.”

“Okay, sweetheart, if you have enough of everything to try again, let’s stay on the phone this time and do it like we’d do it if we were together. One step at a time.”

The miles melted away. We laughed and talked all the way to the sugar topping.

“Now remember,” she said, “just sprinkle the sugar, don’t spoon it.”

How did she know? How did she always know? I smiled and sprinkled, and this time, when they were done, each ramekin held a perfect custard with a shiny, crispy caramelized top.

It took three dozen eggs and a whole lot of sugar and cream to melt those miles away, but it happened. That memory glistens in my mind like those beautiful ramekins.

I brought a beautiful bouquet of her favorite Roses, with wisps of lavender and baby’s breath, to her resting place today. I thanked her for coming by for the Crème Brûlée. Remembering the joy and her laughter entwined with mine gave me the courage I needed to get through this Thanksgiving in gratitude instead of despair. I love you, Rose, forever, mother mine.

My mother’s name was Rosemarie, but everyone called her Rose. She was born on July 30, 1927. She left this earth on August 27, 2024. She was 97. I miss her in ways I don’t even have words to explain. With the passing of a full year now, I find myself wanting to write about her and tell our story more and more.

From the moment I was born, my mother was the guiding light in my life. This is a birthday card she gave me when I turned twenty-one. I framed it because I loved it, and because it was one of the few birthday cards she ever gave me. Instead of cards, on my birthday every year for my whole life she would call me at 8:30 am (the time of my birth) and say, “Good morning sweetheart, I’m so very glad you are here.” I could easily have given this card to her.

I watched a film a few years ago, Faraway Downs – Australia. Set during the Second World War, it is a beautiful story about a British woman’s relationship with an orphaned indigenous child. Eventually, the boy’s grandfather calls to him to go walkabout, where he teaches him about “telling story” through song. As the indigenous people of Australia traverse their lives, they commemorate their journey with songs. The songs form a kind of map that links one generation with the next. Their song stories are their histories. In the film, the woman is heartbroken when she must say goodbye to the boy. He tells her not to worry, that he will sing her to him. He will sing her their story and she will always be able to find him.

I think that is what is happening for me now. I’m writing my mother to me. Our stories link us together forever.

In May of 2023, Rose fell and broke her hip. She had never suffered an injury like that or been in a hospital. She was so afraid. The surgery did not turn out like the surgeon expected and she nearly died on the table. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the surgery took a toll on her that she would never fully recover from.

It didn’t surprise me when she told me at the hospital that she wanted me to be in charge of her care. We had always been there for each other, no matter what. That’s just the way it was. I stayed with her in the rehabilitation facility and then moved in with her when she got home. She was afraid at night, so I slept with her.

At first it seemed like it was going to be one big slumber party. We watched movies and tv shows together. I prepared her food, managed her visitors, her personal care, her doctor’s appointments and the caregivers that came in to help. We snuck out to Starbucks and went to the Nugget Market for Sushi. We knew how to make a bad situation fun.

I tried to manage my husband’s feelings about all the changes in our life and her husband’s reaction to the changes in his. It wasn’t easy but Mom and I were going to do whatever it took to get her back to where she was before she fell. Pretty soon everyone adapted and we all tried to do our part. We truly tried. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, she wasn’t getting better. Instead, her gradual decline was becoming more and more evident. Then one day she told me she wanted me to move back to my house and bring her with me. She loved our guest room. It was always a little sanctuary for her. My husband was happy to have me home and he welcomed Rose with all his heart.

During this time, little snapshots our life together began to flash in both of our minds. When it would happen, we’d share our memories with each other. We’d talk about them. Or laugh hysterically. Or cry big tears. We both filled in the blanks and our story came alive in a profound and visceral way for both of us. I wrote notes about what we shared at night before I went to sleep. These are just a few of the memories we shared:

Forgetting and Remembering

I forgot how terrified and determined you were when you ran away from my father, Jimmy, and how scared I was too. I remember how warm and safe you felt hugging me close in front of the wood burning stove in that cold, dark motel room in the middle of the night.

I forgot how difficult I was for you when I was just a toddler and you were so young. I remembered while I was taking care of you, and you were utterly helpless in every way. You were so apologetic about the diapers, the tears, fears, and all the messes. I was dumbstruck when I thought about how many stinking diapers you must have changed. How many snotty noses and tears you wiped from my cheeks. How many smashed and broken toys you had to throw away. You remembered that I was a joyful baby, and it wasn’t hard at all.

I forgot how electrifying your smile was and how you could turn it on and light up a room in the blink of an eye. I remember how you literally charmed the pants off fashion designer Paco Rabanne, on the dance floor at the Fairmont, when it was The Fairmont. You had been invited to attend the launch of his premiere fragrance, Calandre, and I was your plus one. The room was filled with the essence of his incredible perfume, but it was you who truly took his breath away. You remembered how he wanted to take you back to Spain with him right then. Oh, what a night it was.

I forgot how much you loved to shop and how much you wanted me to shop with you. But I hated it. Our department store arguments were legendary. I wanted jeans and you wanted sweaters and pearls. You remembered that you finally gave up and when you went shopping, you’d buy extra and hang it in your closet and I would sneak in and pick what I wanted. I’m chuckling right now because as I write this, I’m wearing one of your sweaters.

I forgot how much fun you were. I remember smoking a joint with you as we drove through the Santa Cruz mountains and got really fucking high and then really fucking lost and thought that was the funniest thing we’d ever done. You remembered that night at the Pink Door when we drank lots of Martinis, celebrating neither of us could remember what. We sang off key with the piano man ‘til last call and that became the funniest thing we’d ever done.

I forgot how capricious you could be. I remember during the Marty years how quickly I learned to duck and disappear. You remembered you were too afraid to run then, so I ran first.

I forgot how much you hated my boyfriend Willy, how everything about him, his color, his talent, his penchant for the wild side, drove you mad. I remember how you stood staunchly beside me when I lost the baby, reassuring me I would survive. I forgot how fierce you could be. You remembered the last time he beat me up, how you found him and made a him a promise that scared the shit out of him. How he ran and never looked back. I remember how I clung to you after that, knowing the storm had finally passed and I would be okay.

I remembered when you told me you were raped when you were five. I was forty then, and you were sixty. You had kept the secret for decades and then only told me. You finally told me how evil and bloody and brutal it was. Oh, how it informed me. In an instant, I understood so much about you and how those dark, dark shadows came back, over and over again, to haunt us both.

The walk down memory lane we took together was precious and dear. It’s what kept us going.

As the days and weeks passed, I wanted desperately to believe that she was going to return to her active life. One day, when I was trying to encourage her to eat her breakfast and maybe try walking a bit, she said, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Chris. My eyes are blown, my body’s blown, and my brain is on its way out the door. Honey, come on, what do you want from me?” She was right. What did I want from her? For her to resist the inevitability of it all? Did I want her to suffer so I could hold on? At that moment, something inside of me shifted, and I knew I had to begin letting go. For her sake, and for mine. My heart was drowning in my tears.

This poem came from that moment:

momma

first sound, your beating heart

rhythmic drumming, something’s coming

warm darkness, floating gently

bubble bursting, sudden squeezing, pulling me into the night

first touch; silken skin like my own, safe again

hands holding, hugs enfolding,

laughter kindling joyous laughter,

beginnings and endings, shared history, lessons learned

time flies too quickly; not yet, I cry

cheeks, once pudgy and soft, cradle cheeks now chiseled bone

tears rolling down; caught between the rock of your enduring love

and the jagged hard place of your dwindling light

Loosening my grip and gradually letting go were harder than I ever imagined. Rose began to sleep more and talk and engage less. It was quiet in the house most of the time. One day, just before she passed, she was awake and alert and she said to me, “I cannot tell you what a glorious gift it is to have someone who knows absolutely everything about you and loves you still."

I have always felt that way about her, too. Always.

Over this last year, I have realized my mother gave me not only the precious gift of life, but by sharing her remarkable journey to her final breath she also gave me something more. I wrote this last poem a few days after she passed:

The Gift

We only have a few days left, sweetheart

Your transcendent voice cuts through the night

Preparing me, comforting me

We are so near the bend in the road

Everything is tingling now

Awake in the morning light

It’s a lot like labor, baby

Your last whispered words, before you take flight

Where are you, I cry

I feel a flutter in my heart

Right here, right here

Right here inside

An echo, a vision, a snapshot of before

Good morning my child, I’m so glad you are here

Becoming born, becoming dead

Maybe just maybe there is more

You left your body suddenly, so inanimate and cold

Your vibrancy headed for parts untold

Like a bold shooting star speeding bright across the sky

My little light struggling, aching to grab on for the ride

Grief engulfs me, even in my sleep,

Dissolving me like a sand castle

In a wave breaking on the beach

You are so far, far beyond my reach

The Gods are pacing, my heart is racing

I cannot quiet my soul

Untethered now, adrift, and alone

Your absence is creating a deep and ever widening hole

A swarm of dragon flies dance above your grave

And all around my fallen heart

Symbols of transformation, harbingers of change

Maybe just maybe there is more

How will I find you?

In a flower, in a song?

Will we ever come back

to this hallowed ground?

A little salamander skin found

Left behind as it journeyed on

Perfectly shaped, scales glistening in the sun

Becoming dead, becoming born, maybe just maybe there is more

This is not the end, just a new moment in time

Birth into death into newness, again and again

Now is for you child, and yes

Yes, my love, there is more

Jodi Picoult said that someone once told her, “When you give birth to a daughter, you have just met the person whose hand you will hold when you die.”

I fulfilled this destiny with my mother one year ago today. I miss you and love you forever, Rose. We were soul mates in the finest, most primal form.

Over the years our lives diverged. She divorced, I didn’t. I moved away, she didn’t. She never found recovery, I did. But despite it all we were still sisters of the soul. And that promise we’d made so many years ago was mine to fulfill.

The loss of faith that addiction spawns is dark. Very dark, and lonely. When the palliative care doctor asked her if she had a spiritual path that could help her now, she said no. She pointed at me and said, “She has enough for both of us.” She was funny. Always.

She was afraid of the dark. Her father used to lock them in the house and disconnect the power when he went to work at night. She was always afraid of the dark. Liver failure is ugly. Horrific. A grueling march to the end. She cried, and clawed, and screamed from the pain and the fear. I grew more and more frustrated and anxious wanting to help her. Wanting to ease her pain. The kind of pain medication can’t touch. I wanted to change it all and somehow make it easy, beautiful and serene. But I couldn’t.

“Go for a walk,” she told me. “Go meditate or do whatever it is that you do. You deserve a break today,” she snipped in a little sing song voice. I wanted to slap her and hug her all in the same moment. Even now her wit could slice through the pain of the moment like a razor. It was sharp, always sharp.

I went to the Rose Garden down the street from her apartment. It was empty. Fortuitous for me. I sat on a bench wanting to cry but I couldn’t. Wanting to curse really loud but I couldn’t. I was confused and frustrated and I didn’t know what to do. I closed my eyes and prayed. I asked God to help me quiet my mind. To calm my heart. Please. It was Spring and the scent of the roses was whirling around me. I somehow slipped into a deep meditation. A space above the top of my head opened and a light came through. It brought with it a beautiful white rushing waterfall, glistening, descending from on high and washing over her body from head to toe. It was magnificent. It was holy. “Purification” I heard. “Purification is what is happening here.” My heart opened. My fear flew into the ether. I knew I had to stand aside, let her journey be what it was and just love her. Love her, forever.

She sent me to that waterfall. It remains one of the greatest gifts of Grace I have ever received. When she died, the sun was just coming up. The glow in her room was warm and golden. The suffering had stopped. The window was open, and the curtains rustled ever so slightly as she took her leave. I have relived these moments over and over through these years since she left this earth.

Many months after she died, I was dusting the little altar I had where I kept a small vial of her ashes. I had a tearful moment and then I heard her voice as clear as day. “Oh, for fucks sake! You don’t really think I’m in there do you?” It made me laugh out loud. I took her out to our favorite beach that day, a place we both loved. It was a healing place. We ran into the waves and once again she set me free. Her name was Carol and she was my forever friend.

Narrated by Christin Ayotte available on Audible

The night of the show finally arrived. Julie was a nervous wreck. Excited, frightened, and a little frantic, she readied herself for the big event. There was a knock at the door. She gathered up her coat. Ulysses ducked under her collar. "Don’t you dare make a scene," she warned him.

He teasingly did not respond.

“You promised, dammit, and I know you are a man of your word.”

On the drive into the city, Julie, Ian and Annie were filled with anticipation about the coming event. The excitement they were all feeling was contagious. Ulysses could not contain himself. He popped out from his hiding place and into full view on Julie's shoulder.

Annie was in the midst of reassuring Julie about Zack. "I think in the long run you will be glad you signed with him, his gallery in New York is..." Mid sentence Annie spotted Ulysses. She couldn’t believe her eyes. "Julie! Ian, she has that damn cricket with her."

Julie whipped her head around. "I asked you not to make a scene."

Ian turned around just in time to see Ulysses disappear under her collar. "He does understand."

Annie stared at Julie in horror. Julie warded her off, "Don't say it, Annie. No he doesn't, Ian. He obviously does not understand English. Annie, just put it out of your head. Forget you saw him."

"Forget I saw him. You have to be kidding. It's only the biggest night of your life, and you're going to make a fool of yourself."

Julie directed her voice toward her shoulder very emphatically, "No one else is going to see him." And then to her friend, "You know Annie, if I hadn't started making those little pots...."

* * * *

The whole street in front of Zachariah's was lit up for the holidays. The gallery glistened like a diamond. Julie stood in front of the huge window for a moment. Alone. Beautiful twinkling lights surrounded the twenty-foot Christmas tree inside. Ulysses came out on her shoulder and Julie smiled down at him. When she looked back at the window she saw Tony's reflection standing next to her. For one brief moment, the past, the present and the future all came together. She reached out and touched the window and the reflection faded. When she looked at her shoulder Ulysses had retreated to her collar.

Inside, the gallery was decorated with gold and white Christmas garlands and ornaments. There was soft classical Christmas music being played by a chamber quartet and a great banquet table that was lush with hors d'oeuvres. There were dozens of waiters, all in black-tie, anxious to begin serving the champagne.

As soon as he saw her come into the gallery, Zack approached Julie. "Julie." He hugged her and Euro-kissed her on both cheeks. Ian and Annie exchanged looks and then rolled their eyes.

"Zack, I'd like you to meet my friends, Ian and Annie MacFarland. Ian, Annie, this is Zachary Thomas."

Zack barely acknowledged the introduction. “Have you seen your display?” She hadn’t. Zack led them through the gallery toward Julie’s area. All of the artists had their own section of the gallery, and their works were shown in ways that accentuated the essence of each piece. Whether it was lighting, color, wall space, floor space, accessories or shelving, Zack had a keen eye for detail. If nothing else, he was a true connoisseur of good art, and a great showman.

Julie was almost overcome with joy as she approached her display. Strategically positioned as the centerpiece of the whole show, it was like a miniature gallery within the gallery — small shelves, miniature glass cases and tiny pedestals, everything specially constructed to fit the size of her work. Instead of being lost in the enormity of the gallery, her pieces were highlighted, illuminated and certain to be the focus of everyone’s attention.

"I've fantasized about this for so long. I can hardly believe I'm here."

Zack possessively encircled her waist with his arm. "Believe it. You are going to become a star tonight. Did you bring the contract?"

She extricated herself from his grasp as graciously as she could and reached into her bag for the envelope containing the contract. She hesitated, and then handed it to him.

“Zack, there is something I have to tell you.”

Zack snatched the contract out of Julie’s hand. He attempted another kiss but Julie was not up for it. She deflected it by turning toward Annie.

Zack ignored her rebuff, neatly tucked the envelope away in his lapel pocket and smiled a triumphant smile.

Julie forced a smile and then tried again to speak, “We’ll have to talk…”

But Zack was no longer interested in anything that Julie had to say. He was already making his way through the crowd, waving at another artist.

As Julie watched him walk away, a sense of relief came across her face. Then, she spotted Danny. "Annie, look, there's Danny. We should say hello before it gets too hectic."

“Zack is amazing, Julie, he is such a powerful man.”

Julie just shook her head and led Annie across the gallery to meet Danny.

* * * *

The gallery filled quickly with guests. Before long it was packed with hundreds of people. There was no shortage of glitz, glamour, or Rolex watches in this crowd.

In her display area, Julie was talking with a man and a woman when the woman accidentally spilled her champagne. Julie jumped back to avoid being drenched and bumped into the person behind her. Ulysses was jolted by the collision and came out from under her collar to see what was happening.

The woman who spilled her champagne shrieked, "What is that thing? Harold, get it off of her!!"

Julie's heart sank, "It's okay, he's..."

Harold tried to grab Ulysses. Ulysses scrambled to get away, lost his balance and fell to the floor.

Julie began to panic. "Oh God." She looked down, but all she could see was a terrible tangle of milling legs and feet. "Don't move!" she shouted. "Don't anyone move!" She dropped to the floor. People were closing in to see what all the commotion was about. Zack came storming through the crowd. Julie crawled around on the floor trying to find Ulysses.

Zack was very upset. "Julie, what are you doing?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Zack saw Ulysses hopping frantically about. He tried to crush him with his foot, but he missed. He reached down and grabbed Julie by the arm and tried to yank her up. "Julie. Get up. I won't have this in my gallery. You're making a spectacle of yourself."

Julie shook her arm free and reached for Ulysses. Zack tried to stomp on him again. Julie glared up at him and snarled, "Zack, stop!"

"Get a grip Julie, you are disrupting the entire evening. It's a bug for God's sake. Get off the floor."

When Julie looked back at the floor, Ulysses was gone. She scrambled around frantically, shoving people out of the way. Suddenly, a closed hand came through the tangle of legs and opened to reveal the terrified little cricket. Danny's voice swirled around Julie like a warm wind, "This little guy better learn to fly."

Julie's face lit up with the recognition of a kindred spirit. She reached out to take Ulysses from him. For a moment, as their fingertips touched, Julie and Danny hesitated.

Zack's angry voice interrupted them. "Julie, I said get up." He pulled her up by her arm. She was greeted by a lot of cold and confused stares. During all the commotion her parents had arrived, and so had her in-laws. Annie tossed her a "you've blown it now" look. Zack firmly tried to escort her away.

Again, she shook her arm free. "Let go of me,” she insisted. “Just a minute here, Zack." She collected herself, and then looked squarely into his face, "You're going to have to excuse me for a moment." She left the crowd and headed for the door.

She heard the man named Harold behind her, "It was green and weird looking. Some sort of live insect."

Julie was so embarrassed and angry she wanted to run away and never come back. When she got to the car and opened her hand, Ulysses was trembling in her palm. He looked up at her with utter despair. Her heart hurt now more for him than it did for herself.

"Look," she reassured him, "we should have known better. You're safe now and after tonight things will be better, I promise. Things will be like they used to be." She set the little cricket down on the seat and tried to reassure him again, "I won't be inside much longer, Ulysses, I’m done with this place.” She jiggled her hand and smiled at him, “Or should I say this place is done with us?” But she couldn’t get a rise out of him.

He wasn’t listening. He had withdrawn into himself. He retreated into the shadow of the armrest. For an instant he seemed different — more cricket-like than ever before. She hesitated, and then shook off the fear. “Don’t worry my friend, we'll be back home before you know it.”

* * * *

As Julie re-entered the gallery, she was greeted by her mother, a plain woman with a kind of Harriet Nelson innocence about her. "Julie, what was all the commotion about? What's this nonsense about some green bug you take everywhere you go?"

"Oh mom, I don't know what they're talking about. I think the woman who spilled her champagne just had too much to drink."

"Well," her mother relaxed, "there are some pretty unusual people here tonight. I'm so happy to see you, dear. Your father and I are very proud. We had no idea it would be such a gala affair."

Julie and her mother hugged, and Julie encouraged her to go in and see the rest of the gallery. "There are so many talented artists showing their work here, Mom.”

Just as her mother walked away Danny came up and took Julie's hand. It felt so good that she clung to it. She started to tell him how much she appreciated what he had done, but a well-heeled young woman walked up and interrupted them by handing Julie a business card. "Miss Maxwell, my name is Stephanie Bingham. I'm an agent and I'd be very interested in talking to you about your work."

Julie smiled and took the card. "Of course, Miss Bingham. I'd be happy to give you a call."

Danny gave Julie’s hand a little tug and pulled her toward the showroom floor.

"I'm not going to survive this night," she told him.

He leaned in close to her face and said softly, "I think you will. The red dot review is in."

In Julie’s display area, all of her pieces had little red stickers on them. She could not believe her eyes.

As if from nowhere, Zack appeared behind her like a cobra ready to strike its prey. “A pretty stunning showing for a first timer, don’t you think?”

Julie turned and faced him. "Zack, I appreciate what you have done for me, but your price is a little steeper than I want to pay."

Zack wasn’t even fazed. “We have a contract.”

Julie reached up and patted Zack’s lapel pocket. “Well, not exactly. That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier, but you were too busy to listen. I didn’t sign it.” She looked over at Danny, who gave her a smile of reassurance. “Your price is a too high, Zack,” she continued, “so I have decided to try working on my own for a little while."

* * * *

When Julie got back to the car, Ulysses was crouched in the same place she left him. She picked him up as gently as she could and tucked him into the warmth beneath her collar. It was after two in the morning when she finally closed the door of her house behind her and kicked off her shoes.

"The fern please," he said in his smallest voice.

She lifted him to the fern and knew intuitively it was time to be quiet.

* * * *

Early the next morning, before she had even had her coffee, Julie rummaged around in her closet looking for something. She smiled when she found it, and then sat down on the bed and unrolled it at her feet. Tony's butterfly kite. She remembered back to that day on the beach. She remembered how spectacular the kite looked with the sun shining through it. She could see Tony running down the beach with it trailing behind him. She looked up from the floor and stared at the wall. She wondered for a moment if she would ever feel that way again. "I will always love you, Tony. Wherever you are, come fly with us today."

In the living room, a few minutes later, Julie tried to coax Ulysses out of his house. "Do you even know what a kite is?"

"Do I even care?"

"Don't be such a drag."

"A drag?!"

* * * *

As she ran through the dunes toward the beach, Julie juggled the kite and the string roller and tried not to knock Ulysses from her shoulder.

He was protesting the entire time. "Hey! Watch it. I don't think this was such a good idea."

"Fear, Ulysses. It paralyzes you. Relax. Turn around and watch the kite. Maybe you'll learn something."

"Very funny, Maxwell."

Julie started jogging down the beach, releasing the kite string behind her. The kite dipped and bobbed and finally lifted off on the breeze. As it started to climb, Ulysses suddenly sprang into the air and took flight. Julie turned just in time to see him pumping his tiny wings and soaring up toward the kite.

"That's it!" Julie cheered. "You've done it." She watched as he darted about and chased the kite.

"I can fly," he shouted, "I can fly!" And he darted and dashed, and dove and soared, just like the kite.

As Julie watched, she felt an old familiar panic rising inside her. She felt weak in her knees and suddenly lightheaded. She stopped and sat down in the sand. Tightening her grasp of the kite string, she pulled it close to her heart. She watched the little cricket imitate the kite. And then, Ulysses buzzed around her and tumbled onto her shoulder.

She laughed and looked down at him. He had that look again. That look that said he was just a cricket. Julie shook the feeling off again. He sat there quietly, ever so quietly, and together they watched the kite climb higher and higher. It looked small now, and it was very far away.

Finally, Ulysses whispered the dare, "Let it go, Max, let it go."

"Should I? Should I, Ulysses?" She stared up at the kite bouncing along on the wind above her. She held tightly to the string for one more moment and then, yes! She let it drop from her hand. The kite floated away into the sky and disappeared.

Just when it was completely out of sight, Ulysses sprang into the air, circled around Julie's head, and darted off toward the house. "I can fly away home, Max."

"I'll race you," she challenged, and jumped up and chased after the little glistening blur she loved so much. And then, the panic started to rise again. What did he mean fly away home? As she ran after him, she was filled with dread. Had the time come? Was he going home? She ran faster and faster and faster. She hurried through the house, flung the sliding glass door open and called out to him. "Ulysses! I won!"

The stillness on the deck told her he wasn't there. She rushed to the railing and looked up into the tree. Nothing. She searched the sky. He was not there. She heard the telephone ringing. She started toward it. But no, he might be back any second. She couldn’t leave her post. Her machine picked up. It was Stephanie Bingham. "There's another important show—a fantastic opportunity."

Julie smiled. "Look at me, Ulysses," she whispered into the air. "Look at me, I'm flying."

She sat down beside the barrels and closed her eyes. The breeze was blowing, the leaves were rustling, and in the distance she could hear the rolling thunder of waves breaking against the shore. She sat beside the barrel for a long time, settling into the symphony of sounds around her. She had come so far.

And then, she heard it. The odd little sound. She listened. It grew stronger. Yes. It was that high melodic trill that was his song. Ulysses was singing in the tree.

* * *

Narrated by Christin Ayotte and available on Audible

In the restaurant, Maggie Maxwell, a stately woman with silver hair tied neatly into a chignon at the nape of her neck, was already seated at a table when Julie arrived. They hugged and then kissed on both cheeks.

Maggie started the conversation. "How are you, dear?"

"I'm fine, Maggie, and you? How is Tony senior?"

"We miss you, Julie. We haven't seen you for months. I'm glad we could meet today."

"I've been very busy. I've had my work accepted for an art show on December eighth. I don't have much time to get ready."

Maggie waved her hand at a passing waiter, "We should order, Julie, don’t you think?”

Julie nodded and then said quietly, “I’ll have the Chef’s salad and a cup of tea.”

Maggie nodded her approval and smiled at the waiter and said, “I will too.” Then she focused her attention back on Julie. “Of course you will be coming for Thanksgiving. We would like you to come for a nice, long visit. We're planning a real family get together. The first since,” and her voice just sort of trailed off.

Julie's back stiffened. "I hadn't thought about the holidays really. This is such an important opportunity for me."

Maggie didn’t like being refused. "Julie, you haven't been back since the funeral. Not for any length of time. We lost him too, you know. You could see all your old friends, start looking for a place to live. Don't you want your old job at the university back?"

"A place to live? Maggie, I'm trying to hang on to the beach house. It was our home. It's my home now."

The waiter came back to the table, served their salads and poured their tea.

"I know you won't let us down, Julie. A few days out of your life for Tony's family can't be too much to ask."

Julie began to feel guilty. Resignation was setting in. She pushed her salad around on her plate. "You're right Maggie, I'll...” But before she could finish her sentence, she heard Ulysses pipe up.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," he quipped.

Julie shriveled into her chair. "Damn."

Maggie was surprised and puzzled. "Damn? Damn what?"

Julie didn’t respond. She was going over the situation in her mind.

Ulysses started up again, "Like I said, Maxwell, nothing ventured…"

Julie picked up the ball, "Nothing gained."

"Nothing gained?" Maggie was confused. "Julie, are you all right?"

"Yes, yes I am. I'm sorry, Maggie. I can't come for Thanksgiving. I have too much work to do. I've wanted an opportunity like this all my life. And now I have it. I have to give it my best."

"But..."

"You know, one of the reasons Tony picked the cottage was that it had a place for my studio. He believed in me, Maggie. And now I have to believe in myself."

As she left the restaurant that day, Julie was surprised by her newfound courage. She still wasn’t quite sure she had done the “polite” thing, but it certainly felt like she had done the right thing. She spoke affectionately to her shoulder, "I'm beginning to think I can't take you anywhere!"

* * * *

On her way home, Julie stopped at The Potter's Wheel to pick up some supplies. She was standing at the register with Danny when Celia Fontaine swept into the shop. Celia looked and dressed more like a runway model than a potter.

Without any consideration for the fact that Danny was obviously speaking to someone, Celia rushed up to him and said, "Danny, babe, I'm in such a hurry. Do me a big fave, will you?" She handed Danny a piece of paper with a list on it, and then she recognized Julie. "Julie, Julie Maxwell. Well, we haven't seen you around for a while.” The competitor in Celia began to surface. “Still playing with the kids out at State?" she asked Julie with a slightly sarcastic tone.

"Celia, how are you? No, I'm not teaching anymore."

"You haven't finally given up, have you?"

"No, not exactly."

Danny didn’t like where this was headed so he entered the conversation, "Julie's getting ready for Zack's too. He loves her work."

Celia was not happy to hear that news but diminished her own reaction with a snippy, "Still doing those carved things, Julie? Danny, be sweet, won't you, and get my things together. I'm in a big hurry. Ever since I was accepted to the Craft Council I have more work than I know what to do with."

Celia pulled the sleek, leather-bound portfolio she was carrying out from under her arm and flung it open for Julie. It contained some very dramatic photographs of Celia’s work. Her pots were a modern take on jasperware. Their fine, white, unglazed simplicity and their curvaceous shapes were Celia’s signature. “I’m doing mostly commissioned work now, you know,” Celia added as if it was important information that Julie needed to have.

Julie was intimidated, but she managed to at least pay Celia a compliment, "Your portfolio is very nice, Celia. You must be very proud." Julie began gathering up her things so she could leave.

Danny hurried around the counter to help her.

Feeling slighted, Celia chastised, "Danny, I told you I am in a big hurry."

"In a minute, Cele."

Julie tried to be cordial, "It was good seeing you again, Celia."

Celia was quick to respond. "I guess we'll be seeing more of each other now. I just took my last load over to Zack. He is so supportive.” And then twisting the knife just a little, “He loved everything. I'm so relieved to be completely ready for him. It's such an important show."

Julie's spirit crumbled as she left the shop. She was nowhere near ready. Danny helped her put her supplies in the car.

"Where is your little friend today?" he asked.

Right on cue, Ulysses peeked out from under her collar.

"Don't like Cele either, eh little fella? Can't say as I blame ya.” And then to Julie, “Don't let her get to you, Jule, I'm not ready for the show either."

Julie smiled. She enjoyed Danny's warmth.

He reached out and took her hand. "It's good seeing you more. I've missed you, Jule."

* * * *

On the way home, Julie stopped at the Post Office to pick up the mail. When she opened her box she saw the large manila envelope with Tony’s manuscript in it. She grabbed it out of the box and hurried home. She was very excited.

At Tony’s desk, Julie sat down and rifled through the phone book looking for a number. Ulysses leap-hopped onto Tony's computer.

"I can't believe what a perfect end this is," she looked pointedly at Ulysses, "to an otherwise very stressful day!"

"What is it?"

"Tony's manuscript. I've got to call Mr. Jessup. Now I can make the payment and I won't lose the house." She found the number and started to dial.

"Aren't you even going to read it?"

Julie stopped and stared at Ulysses, then at the manuscript. Slowly, she put the phone down.

"Well?" Ulysses prodded her.

"I can't. I can't read it yet."

The afternoon became evening. The manuscript sat on the coffee table, unopened.

Night became day. The first sunlight drifted into the bedroom. Julie was lying in bed looking at the envelope next to her, still unopened.

She forced herself to go into her studio. She sat at her wheel, staring at the clay. She wanted to wish the clay into a form, but she couldn’t.

Ulysses was sitting on the manila envelope.

Julie made a trek down to the beach and sat in the sand hugging her knees and watching the waves. Ulysses sat on her shoe. The unopened manuscript sat in the sand beside her.

Julie's face soaked up the ocean mist like a dry sponge. It was cool and soothing, like clay. She thought about her days at the beach with Tony -- the great ones, and the not so great ones just before he died. Her thoughts lingered for a moment on his death. "It's been a year, one whole year," she said to Ulysses.

"You were afraid then too," the little cricket reminded her.

It was eerie how he could sense where her mind was. "I know."

"But you got through it."

"I know, and I have to get through this." She shivered. "It's getting cold. I think we'll have a fire in the fireplace tonight." She collected Ulysses, and the manuscript, and they headed for home.

That night, as the fire crackled in the woodstove, Julie sat down on the floor with her back against a chair. Ulysses settled on her knee. She tore open the envelope and took the manuscript out. She began to read.

* * * *

Stay tuned, in the next episode Julie must summon up her courage in a whole new way.

Narrated by Christin Ayotte available on Audible

Days later, when Julie opened the front door to Zack, her eyes were red and puffy.

“Hello, Zack, come in. Thanks so much for coming all this way. I’m running a little behind schedule,” she apologized.

"Hi." Zack was happy to see her, but he could tell immediately she had been crying. "Julie, what's wrong?"

"Oh nothing, I'm just having some of those days.” She mustered a smile.

Zack put his arm around her. "I'm a good listener."

The strength of his voice and the reassurance of his arm around her made her start crying again. Zack guided her to the couch and sat down beside her. She began to tell him her tale of woe.

Much later they were sitting on the couch, half-empty coffee cups on the table in front of them. "Since I can't seem to find anyone who is willing to refinance me, and with the manuscript trashed the way it is—I either have to let them publish it and ruin Tony's name, or give up the money and lose the house. I don't know, maybe I should just let the house go." Julie had pretty much told Zack everything there was to tell.

Zack leaned back with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his face. Julie mistook it for a look of discomfort. "Oh Zack, forgive me. I shouldn't be burdening you with all of this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have no right to..."

"I'm glad you did. I think maybe we can work something out. Would you be open to being under contract to Zachariah's in repayment for a loan?"

"What? The payment is...Zack...it's so much money."

"You're worth it, Julie. And besides, it's my business to support talented artists. I want to help you. I'll call my attorney and have him draw up some papers. We'll go over everything together and then you can put all your worries behind you and just concentrate on your work."

Julie was thrilled. She couldn’t believe her ears.

Before she could speak, Zack went on. "And speaking of your work, don't you have something for me to look at?"

Julie jumped up. "Oh yes. Come out to the studio. Zack, I don't know what to say. I'm so grateful. I can hardly...."

As they passed the fern, they heard the odd little sound.

"There's that sound again. What kind of watch is that?" Zack looked at her wrist. No watch. Julie tried to ignore what was happening and hurry him out the door. They heard another odd little sound. Zack looked around and noticed that it was coming from the fern. He spotted Ulysses' little house. “Julie,” he said as he moved toward the tiny pot. "Did you make this?"

"Yes, it's cute isn't it?" She tried to divert him toward the door. He resisted.

"Cute? It's incredible." He reached for it and plucked it out of the fern.

"Oh Zack, don't." Julie pleaded. But it was too late. He opened it, saw Ulysses inside and automatically dumped him on the floor. Ulysses crashed to the ground, with one of his wings severely scrunched out of place.

"Oh great. Now you've done it." Julie snapped.

Zack was surprised, "It's only a bug."

"Not you, him."

Ulysses was working himself into a frenzy. "Me, what about him? What a fiend!"

Zack looked at Julie with one of those oh-boy-I've-got-a-live-one-here looks, but then promptly dismissed her in favor of examining the little treasure he had discovered.

Julie picked Ulysses up off the floor, carefully put his wing back in its place and then put him back in the fern. "It serves you right."

Zack didn’t know what she was talking about. "What did you say?"

"The light,” she improvised, “I said hold it up to the light."

Zack held the little pot up to the light. "God, you can see right through it. How did you ever throw something this fragile? I can't believe you made this and you keep a bug in it."

Julie opened the door for Zack and then glared over her shoulder at the fern.

Ulysses called out after her, very sarcastically, "No guts, no glory, Maxwell!"

"It's not just any bug, Zack."

In the studio, Zack stared in amazement at the collection of miniature pots on the shelf. "I can't believe you didn’t show these to me sooner."

Julie was not quite sure what to do with all of this attention, "I like them, they sort of have a sentimental value, but I never thought anyone else would be interested in them."

Zack looked like someone who just had found a gold mine. "I knew you were good," he picked up one of the little pots, "but you're a genius. Julie, you have to concentrate all of your energy on these.” He held the little pot up on the palm of his hand to admire it. “When you take your skill to this extreme...these, these are collector's items!"

Julie was embarrassed. She was having a hard time accepting what Zack was saying.

"I can't imagine how you carved these. Can you do all your of forms in this size?"

Julie shrugged. “I haven’t tried yet.”

Zack could not contain himself. "They look like blown glass. Julie, I want to show these in New York too!"

* * * *

Zack was barely out of the driveway before he was on the cell phone to his attorney. "I want a contract for this new potter. Right, that's the one. And I want it so tight she'll never work for anyone else. She is going to make me a whole lot of money.” Zack grinned to himself like a Cheshire cat. “No, hell no. She feels indebted to me. She thinks I discovered her. No, it'll be a long time before that happens. She is real insecure about her work." He paused and listened for a moment, and then in a frighteningly cold and calculating voice said, "Right, as in own her."

* * * *

In the morning, Julie was standing in front of the fern admiring the little house. "Zack's right. I am good."

Ulysses poked his head out and sort of snarled at the mention of Zack's name. "You better watch out for him, Julie. He's not what you think."

"Oh Ulysses."

"Don't ‘oh Ulysses’ me. It's that total disregard—his complete self-preoccupation."

"I need Zack, Ulysses. He is going to help me.”

"No, he needs you," Ulysses said knowingly, and then ducked back into his house. "You'll see."

* * * *

As she walked toward the entrance of David's building, Julie caught sight of herself in the window glass. She noticed how much taller she looked when she stood alone. Tony's six-foot frame had always made her appear shorter. She felt excited by her reflection, proud of the way her carriage reflected her courage today. When she entered David's office this time it was in a very different spirit than the last time.

David stood to greet her, extended his hand and smiled the smile of a man who thinks he is holding all the cards. "I'm glad to see you are tending to things more promptly these days."

"David, how are you?"

“Good, good. Have a seat, Julie.”

Julie declined his offer and instead stood in front of his desk, facing him.

"Would you like some coffee?" he asked.

Julie tossed the manuscript onto his desk. "No thanks, let's get right to it, David." David was surprised by the gesture. Julie went on, "I'm sure I don't have to tell you this is unacceptable, do I?"

"What do you mean, unacceptable, Julie? I told you this was business."

"I'm aware of that. It is business. My business. You have trashed Tony's work." She patted the manuscript. "This is not going to be published in his name, David. Not now, not ever."

"Julie, you don't understand."

"No, you have it wrong. I do understand. This is not his work. I don't know what you have to do to remedy this situation, but I suggest you come up with a solution as fast as you can. I'm not above getting an attorney, David."

"You can't."

"Yes, I can. And I will. If you want to bring this to a peaceful and successful resolution then I suggest you start thinking about it. Maybe a list of writers, some samples of their work, so together we can choose the right person."

David was completely taken aback as Julie turned to leave. As she opened the door, with her back to him, she dismissed him curtly. "Think about it for a day or so, David, and then get back to me."

The sound of the door slamming behind her sounded like the starting gun at the races and she felt like a brave young filly bursting out of the gates. Striding down the hallway to the elevator, she was full of herself and beaming with pride.

* * * *

The heat was on. The show was foremost in Julie's mind. She moved more surely now. As she wedged the clay, every muscle in her body seemed to come alive. Her rhythm had returned. The wheel spun. Her fingers were again agile and strong. She hovered over the clay. It responded to her every touch. Julie and the clay were one.

The miniature pots were lining up. Perfect, balanced, beautiful – glistening like little jewels. Julie made room on the shelf for more. It was obvious that she was completely absorbed in her work.

Ulysses had fallen into the background. He sat in the doorway, gazing out at the field or up at the tree. The trips back and forth to the fern were becoming obligatory. Julie and he barely spoke.

Carving and sketching, sketching and carving, each piece Julie finished seemed to have a life of its own. She was inspired. She barely broke her concentration long enough to eat. The pace was frenetic. How long could it go on?

The days ran into nights, the nights ran into days. She continued to push herself at a feverish pitch. And then, gradually, the signs of wear and tear began to show on her. The phone rang constantly. She became more and more frazzled every time she had to answer it. Her hair was matted with glaze, and she was covered with clay. Exhausted, she fell into bed at night.

* * * *

In the deep sleep that comes with exhaustion, Julie was dreaming. Tony was sitting beside her on the edge of the bed. He was trying to rouse her. "C'mon Max, get up....” Julie rolled over and reached across the bed.

Ulysses called to her from the fern, "C'mon Max, it's getting late."

Julie awakened with a start. She looked up at the picture of Tony on the nightstand. She remembered. She buried her head in the covers. She longed for the feeling of Tony's whisper against her ear.

“Who loves you?” he would ask her.

“You do,” she would respond. “Who loves you?” she would ask back.

“You do,” he would whisper, as he ever so lightly kissed her ear and they melted into an embrace.

She reached up and touched her ear.

Ulysses called out to her. "I can't sleep 'til noon and then jump start with a cup of coffee, you know,"

Julie looked at the clock. It was almost noon. "Oh no!" She jumped out of bed and raced toward the kitchen.

Ulysses was perched way out on the tip of a long fern frond, but Julie didn’t pay any attention to him as she rushed past.

"Hey, have you completely forgotten about me?" he hollered after her.

She stopped, went back and got him. She took him into the kitchen and set him on the counter. As she chopped up a water chestnut for him, she cut her finger. "Dammit!" She rushed to the bathroom for a Band-Aid. She tore one open, but when she tried to put it on she was in such a state she stuck it to itself. Now she had to cut it off. She tried again. It would be more difficult to work with a bandage on her finger. She was not happy about this. Back in the kitchen, as she hurried to make her coffee, she spilled coffee grounds all over the floor. "Not today!" she screeched. “I can’t handle this today!”

"Take it easy, Max. Slow down." Ulysses tried to calm her.

"I can't slow down. The show is in four days, Ulysses. I have to be ready to fire tomorrow."

In the studio, she worked at a furious pace. She was measuring and mixing a glaze when the phone rang. As she reached for the phone, she knocked the container of glaze over. The glaze spilled all over her, the table, and the floor. She groaned and slammed the phone down without finding out who it was.

"I hate glazing! Why did I ever say I would do this show?"

Ulysses was on the table looking over the disaster.

Julie grabbed a towel and tried to sop up the mess. It made a bigger mess. "Damn. Damn! Damn!!" She threw the container across the room, splattering color everywhere. She looked down at herself. An image of Tony, and the day they painted the house, appeared in her head. She shook it off. "I don't want to do this stupid show. A bunch of phony people all standing around, 'oh Miss Maxwell,'" she mimicked, 'where do you get your inspiration, your work is so exquisite.'"

"I thought you were happy about the show. It's what you've always wanted," Ulysses tried to remind her.

Julie remembered Tony holding the keys to the house just out of her reach. She heard herself telling him, "I've wanted my own studio all of my life."

Ulysses persisted, "What's the matter? Why are you so angry?"

Julie came back to the moment. "You can see I spilled my glaze. I'll be lucky if I have enough to finish. And don't call me angry just because you are bored and I don't have time to entertain you."

"But I...."

"That's right Mr. Do Nothing Cricket. You heard me. Don't try and blame me because you are afraid. This is not the accident and I'm not taking the blame." She raced out of the shop to get the hose and came bursting through the door with the water spraying full force. She scared Ulysses half to death.

"Oh boy, if I could fly. You'd never see this old do-nothing cricket again. What do you think this is, my whole life? This studio and that infernal fern?"

"It is your whole life. What else is there?" Julie had struck deeply and opened an old wound. Ulysses was very hurt. Julie remembered Tony trying to help her with her work. She heard herself talking to him, "...you're slipping away from me, Tony....” Tears filled her eyes. She came back to the moment, in anguish. "Oh Ulysses, I didn't mean that." She threw the hose down and reached out to him.

He recoiled from her. "No! I'm sick of riding on your finger. I'm sick of you letting me in, letting me out, putting me up, putting me down. And I'm sick to death of being here." He sprang into the air and disappeared.

"Ulysses."

The doorbell rang.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

The doorbell rang again, insistently. She ran to get it.

When she came back into the studio she was carrying a huge gift basket. It was filled with fruit and cheese and flowers and champagne and a large white envelope. Julie opened the card that was pinned to the wrapping. It said, "To my new resident artist."

She crumbled into her chair and cried. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. I can't do this without you."

Ulysses poked his head out from behind a pot. He moved toward her and climbed onto her wrist. She barely whispered, "Ulysses, I'm so sorry. I just miss him so much. I want him here with me."

"He is with you. Every time you remember him, Julie, he is with you again. He will always be with you no matter where you are. You have come very far on your own, Max. You can't let..." The little cricket's voice faded into an echo.

In Julie's mind Tony was telling her, "Promise me Max, you won't let anything hold you back." Julie looked at Ulysses and then closed her eyes, trying to hold on to the memory for one more moment.

"Nothing ever really ends, Julie," he reminded her.

And then she opened her eyes and finished it for him, "Something new just begins."

* * * *

Firing day. Handling each piece with the utmost of care, Julie loaded the kiln. As she lifted each pot in her hand she scrutinized every aspect of it. They were all so delicate, so fragile. If the fire wasn’t just right....

She bricked up the opening, and then paused for a moment. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and then tilted her head ever so slightly upward. She was in an almost ceremonial state. She reached down and turned the gas on. The jets ignited and roared as they filled the kiln with fire. Julie looked down at Ulysses on her shoulder.

"Flight!" he smiled up at her, and her face flushed with excitement.

* * * *

When Julie finally had time to sit down and open the envelope from Zack, and read her new contract, she seemed to both understand and not understand what she was reading. She needed a second opinion.

At the Potter's Wheel, Danny handed the contract back to Julie shaking his head. "I’m sorry to say this, but I'm not surprised. It's his way of letting you know he intends to be both mentor and manager. He's offered you just enough to keep you going, but he'll be the one making all the money."

"I don't know what to do, Danny. I have to pay the bank or it's goodbye to the house."

“Zack is going to put expensive tags on your work, Julie. Have you thought about how much you would make if everything sold?"

"With the money from my folks I'd be able to make the payment, but that's not realistic."

"Why isn't it? Everyone who is anyone will be at this show, and they’ll buy. I think I'd wait for the red dot review before I made any decisions." Danny reached up to her shoulder and Ulysses hopped onto his finger. "And what about you, little fella, what do you think?"

Ulysses liked this guy.

Julie was in a quandary. "Zack says there isn't any selling at the show."

But Danny is in the know. "No selling? No money changes hands, but people reserve the things they intend to buy."

Julie figures it out. "So that’s the red dot review?"

"Exactly, everything that is reserved is marked with a little red sticker. By the end of the night you can usually count your chickens."

As Julie and Ulysses were leaving Danny's, she defended herself, almost to herself. "I can't risk losing the house. Even if he isn't the nicest guy, he is giving me a start."

Ulysses shook his head in dismay.

Julie was going to have to reach very deep inside to find the courage for this.

* * * *

Stay tuned… maybe determination is the key….

Narrated by Christin Ayotte available on Audible

Tilted back in her chair with her long legs extended and crossed in front of her, Julie was very carefully and precisely carving a pot. The small clay form she had cupped in the palm of her hand was extremely delicate. She punctured the form. "Damn." She set it down and picked up another. Within seconds, she had punctured it too. Within moments, another.

"Damn. I swear this borders on masochism," she said out loud. She was about to start heaving the clay forms through the open door of her studio when she heard a little clicking sound behind her and turned to see what it was.

Ulysses was using the wedging table as a makeshift speedway. He was practicing his jumping. Julie watched him covertly. At first he landed on his back every time and had to flip himself over, but then gradually he began to land right side up each time.

"Hey, you are getting pretty good at that," she praised him.

"Practice makes perfect, Maxwell."

Knowing full well what he was referring to, Julie mocked him very sarcastically, "Practice makes perfect, Maxwell."

Ulysses moved to the edge of the table, sized up the floor below, and flipped into the air. Julie gasped but couldn’t look. Instead she made idle conversation. "Know what I was thinking about? My lunch with Maggie. I wonder if I'm ever going to have the courage to...."

But Ulysses had leapt successfully across the floor and landed squarely on her knee. He interrupted her with a crisp little, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"My God, you've done it!"

"That's right, and I'm going to do it again." Then, looking like a tiny torpedo—a little spiraling bullet, he sprang back toward the table. “Like I said Max, practice makes perfect, practice makes perfect.”

Julie looked down at her little pots and then started back to work.

* * * *

At the end of the day, as Julie packed up the boxes for Zack, she nervously looked over her work. She examined the difference between the pieces she was making for the show and the little ones she had placed on the shelf. She picked up the one she had made especially for Ulysses. It looked like a jewel it was so perfect. It was very round, like a tiny teapot. She had carved a little one-legged cricket in flight on the lid and cut a special window in the front so he could get in and out on his own. There was something about these little ones, something. "Too bad Zack doesn't want miniatures," she thought to herself.

That night, she put the tiny porcelain house in the fern for Ulysses. Ulysses was very pleased.

In her bedroom, Julie settled into bed and reached up to turn out the light. Then she heard something. It was the odd little sound. Then it stopped. She listened for more. Nothing. She turned out the light and nestled into her pillow. She heard it again. She got out of bed and went to the bedroom door to listen. It was the odd little sound, but it had changed. Now it sounded like the tinkling of a small bell...hesitant at first, but then it seemed to grow more confident. Soon it was a high melodic trill, a haunting song. It was Ulysses. He was singing in his house.

* * * *

Julie's meeting with Zack was not going as well as she would have liked. As he looked over the work she had brought in, a buzzer signaling him that he had a call was unrelenting. Finally, in a very perfunctory tone, he said, "I can tell you haven't hit your stride yet, Julie." Then he hurriedly tagged three pieces and said, “But, these are nice, I'll keep them."

Only three. Julie was very disappointed.

"Look, will you excuse me for a minute?” Zack said curtly, and then without waiting for an answer, “I have to take this. I'll meet you downstairs."

Julie felt sick to her stomach as she gathered up her things. Zack was chatting away on the phone like she wasn’t even there. Something about some polo match. It was an awkward moment. She didn’t know if she had been scolded, brushed off or discharged.

Outside, as she was loading her boxes in the trunk of her car, Ulysses popped out from under her collar. "Maybe he would like the little ones, Julie."

Julie dismissed the idea with the click of her tongue. It was too ridiculous to even consider.

Ulysses pressed on. "Well, he might. I’ll bet he’s never seen anything quite as…” he thought for a moment and then said, “as original as my house."

"So what are you now, an art aficionado?" Julie was feeling defeated. She headed back to the gallery. “Disappear, would you please,” she snapped at him, and Ulysses obediently ducked out of sight.

Zack was alone in his office, and still on the phone. The conversation, however, had taken a turn for the worse. "What the hell does Edward know about anything?” Zack laughed a snide little laugh. “He's only an artist. He either does it my way, or he takes his crap out of my gallery."

As Julie walked through the door, Zack changed his demeanor like a chameleon changing its colors. He smiled up at her and very politely hurried the caller off the phone. As he stood and walked around the desk toward her he reassuringly said, "I know this is going to be a rush for you, Julie, but you can do it. I'll tell you what, I'll come out and pick up the next batch. It will save you a trip in to the city and I'll get a chance to see where my most prized artist lives and works."

Julie was feeling very insecure. She was sinking deeper into doubt about herself and her talent. "Are you sure you want to go to all that trouble?"

"Of course I'm sure. Julie, you're not upset because I didn't want all of the things you brought today, are you?"

"Well, do you still want me in the show?"

Zack unexpectedly took Julie's chin in his hand. It was a very intimate gesture. "Don't be silly. Even at your not-so-best, you're way ahead of everyone else. Relax. You know you can do better, and you will. When I introduce you to the art world…” He stopped for a moment and gazed into her eyes as though he was very taken with her. The moment was broken by the odd little sound.

Zack was surprised by it. "What was that?"

Julie began to panic. "What was what?”

Another odd little sound.

"That. That weird little noise." Zack sort of peered around her at the back of her collar.”

"My watch.” Julie blurted out. “It's my watch.” And then looking down at her watch she said, “And oh my, I’m late, I'm late for my lunch with Maggie.” As she backed hurriedly out of his office, she sputtered, “Zack, uh, thanks. I'll… I’ll call you when I'm ready...I mean when I have more pots ready.” She scrambled out of the gallery.

Outside, both Julie and Ulysses were outraged, but for different reasons. Ulysses got in the first shot. "Vulture! I don't like that guy. I'm telling you, I don't like that guy at all."

"No shit, Sherlock!" she snapped at him.

"Who?"

"Never mind. What were you thinking, Ulysses? You could have blown this whole deal."

“You better watch out for him, Julie, he’s not what you think.”

* * * *

Stay tuned, in the next episode new challenges arise…

Narrated by Christin Ayotte available on Audible

Julie marveled at how tiny the porcelain gourd shaped pot was as it spun on the center of the wheel. It was only a few inches tall, and just wide enough to slip the tips of her fingers into. She liked working on it. It required a whole new kind of tension in her arms and fingers. On the table around her were other miniature pots, some that had not turned out so well, and others that were perfect.

Ulysses was at the window pondering the tree. Julie looked up at it too. Many times she had felt like hugging that old tree and one of them was now. She would be hard-pressed to count the number of hours, the number of days she had kept company with that tree. How many sunrises and sunsets, storms and soft breezes they had shared. And now the wise old matron was calling—beckoning to the little cricket, challenging him to resume his life.

Magical, mystical tree, I thank you, Julie thought to herself. "You could take that tree," she said to her little friend.

No response.

She persisted, "You could. That's what those pretty little wings are for. Flying. You know, pump, pump, pump and off you go!"

"Who asked you, anyway?" he snapped back at her.

"Admit it,” she persisted. “You spend a lot of time wishing you were up in that tree."

"I'm not wishing I was UP in anything."

Just then Annie knocked on the window and smiled. "Hi!" she said as she came through the door. She looked around. "Hey, who were you talking to?"

"Um...."

Then Annie noticed Ulysses sitting on the window ledge. "He's back."

Julie grinned at her friend’s dismay. "He is. Isn’t it great? Say hi to Annie, Ulysses."

Annie was obviously annoyed.

Julie laughed. "God Annie, do you have to take everything so seriously all the time?"

Annie shrugged her comment off and said, “Well, at least you're back to work.”

Julie smiled and held one of the little pots up for Annie to see.

"Wow. It’s precious. It’s so little.” Annie was truly amazed. “ Are you going to carve it?”

Julie shook her head no. "Not yet, I'm trying these out to make a new house for Ulysses."

Annie’s brow furrowed. "I thought you only had a few weeks to get ready for the show?"

Julie got up and showed Annie the book that Danny had given her.

Annie didn’t want to hear anything or see anything else that had to do with crickets. She snubbed the book with a "So?"

"So, aren't they beautiful? A cricket is a good omen, Annie. Do you know there is a ton of cricket history in China?"

"This isn't China."

"No, really, just listen for a minute. They are revered. The Chinese believe that crickets can be the incarnations of great warriors and heroes."

"Julie."

"God, even Charles Dickens said that all crickets are potent spirits."

"You're not trying to tell me that someone is living inside this cricket of yours, are you?"

"Have a little imagination, Ann."

"For a bug?"

"For Pete's sake, if the Chinese hadn't been so fascinated with bugs you wouldn't have that silk shirt you're wearing." Julie raised Ulysses on her finger so Annie could get a better look at him.

Ulysses looked at Annie with one of his penetrating stares. It unnerved her and made her feel defensive.

Annie glared back at him for a moment and then realized what she was doing and snapped, "I don't care what you say, Julie, having a relationship with a cricket is pretty weird." Then she shrugged off the cricket’s stare and changed the subject. "I came by because Ian and I were wondering what you are doing for Thanksgiving."

Julie winked at Ulysses, set him back on the window ledge and went back to her work. "I'm supposed to go down to Tony's mother’s, but I'm really dreading it."

Annie knew she might be moving into a difficult area here, but she asked anyway, "Not ready for that much family?"

"That, and I do have a lot to do to get ready for the show."

"Why don't you just tell her that? She'll understand. Then you can spend the day with us.”

Julie was tempted, but she just wasn’t sure.

Annie smiled at Julie and then turned her nose up at Ulysses. “Oh all right,” she sighed, “I guess you can bring him along."

Julie laughed. "I know you think he is a big joke Annie, but I've accepted that about you." They both giggled. Then Julie got very quiet. She thought about what she was about to say, evaluating whether she wanted to say it or not, and then she stopped her wheel and looked at Annie, "I don't think I have the courage to tell Maggie I'm not coming. She wouldn't understand about the show. She and Tony senior never considered me a real artist." Julie’s mood grew more somber with every word she spoke. "No one ever really did, except Tony."

"I didn't mean to upset you, Jule. I’m sorry I brought it up. But think about it, okay? We’d love to have you with us."

"I know, Annie, I'll be all right. I'm just going to have to get through the holidays the best I can."

* * * *

When Julie filled the drying cabinet with the array of clay forms she had produced, and saw all the work lined up on the shelves, she became a little concerned. There were so many more of the miniatures than there were of the ones she needed for Zack. Maybe Annie was right. If she didn’t buckle down and do some real work here she wasn’t going to be ready for the show, and then what? She started her wheel up again.

Ulysses was on the windowsill, still fixated on the tree. She much preferred focusing on him, than herself. "Life is flying, excuse the pun, right by you and you're not doing anything about it," she gently reprimanded him.

He looked up at her and actually frowned. "Don't you ever give up?"

"Yesterday you told me not to give up. So which is it—give up or don't give up?"

Ulysses decided to ignore her, but she went on. "I'm only trying to tell you something for your own good. I know what I'm talking about here. Look at me. I wanted to be a successful artist right alongside Tony. But I never really tried. Then, before I knew it, it was over. Honestly, what's the point of not flying?"

"The point is I am not going to tear myself up any more than I already have just because you think I'd like to be flying. Who needs it? Life is…”

"Boring, and you are just barely tolerating it! Change isn't easy. We know that.” She emphasized what she had just said with a ‘don’t we now’ glance in Ulysses’ direction, and then went on. “It takes a lot of hard work and even then, in the end, you might fail." Julie stopped her wheel and thought about what she had just said.

Ulysses interrupted her thoughts. "It's a long way to the ground from the top of that tree, Maxwell. What if I ripped off one of my wings on the way down?"

Julie examined the clay form she was working on and then looked down at her tools. This pot needed finish work. Hesitantly she picked up a rib tool. "So what if you did, you never use them anyway,” she snapped back at him.

Ulysses went back to ignoring her.

She started trimming the lip of the little pot she was holding in her hand, but continued to prod him about his wings. “It’s true, isn't it? Every night I listen, hoping you will at least use them to sing with. That maybe there will be a little chirruping around here."

"Maybe I'm not moved to sing anymore. Did that ever occur to you? And wait just a minute here. You're not so brave. What about this Thanksgiving thing?"

This time Julie didn’t respond. She was concentrating on her work.

Now he persisted, "Well?"

Just then the rib slipped and made a slice in the pot. "Damn, this clay is too wet!" She reached for the small potter's torch at her side and ignited it.

The blast from the torch caught Ulysses off guard and he instinctively sprang across the room. He landed right side up, but he was too unnerved to notice. "What's the matter with you,” he shouted at her, “scaring me like that!"

"I didn't mean to," she apologized. And then she noticed. She pointed at him and exclaimed, "Hey!"

"I don't have to worry about flying,” he grumbled. “I'm not going to live that long!"

Julie laughed and pointed at him insistently. "Ulysses."

"Bug off!” he snapped.

Julie cracked up when he said that, which made him even madder.

"Bug off," she sputtered, "you said bug off." She pointed at him again as if to say, “would you look at yourself,” but he was still in a tizzy.

"Stop pointing at me! I can't stand that pitiful, patronizing finger of yours."

Julie looked down at her finger and then at him. "You better stop your mouth and start your ears, buddy. In case you hadn't noticed...."

Ulysses was suddenly aware, "I'm right side up!"

* * * *

Stay tuned… A fork in her creative road presents itself, but Julie is uncertain…

Narrated by Christin Ayotte available on Audible

Deep in the night Julie was awakened by a frightening clap of thunder. She sat up with a start. Lightning cracked! The sky lit up. It terrified her.

"Oh my God, Ulysses!" she thought. She looked outside just as the wind blew the little twig house out of the barrel. It hit the deck and broke apart like a hundred tiny matchsticks. Julie jumped out of bed, flung the door open and bolted out into the storm. It was pouring rain. The wind whipped her hair straight back from her face. In moments, she was soaked to the skin.

The trellis of snow peas had collapsed and the old worn vines had folded in around it. The wind swirled around her as she made her way to the barrels. She was very frightened. "Ulysses! I'm coming," she cried out. The wind was screaming through the big tree above her. She could not hear the tiny cricket's call for help.

A loud cracking and whining sound signaled the breaking loose of a huge tree branch. She looked up just in time to see it crashing toward her shop. As if she could somehow stop it from happening, she jumped to her feet and shouted “No!” But the huge branch ripped through the roof of the shop and shattered the window. Julie started toward the shop, and then remembered—Ulysses. She had to find him. She turned back to the barrels and as carefully as she could began struggling to remove debris. She couldn't see anything but the darkness around her, and the rain and wet hair streaking across her face.

As the rain pelted down on her, she ran in the house and tried to turn the lights on. The power was out. She grabbed a flashlight and returned to the barrel. As the beam of light negotiated its way through the mud and leaves, lightning continued to crack above her in the angry night sky. Then suddenly there he was, rocking and rolling on his back and struggling against the storm. As she reached in for him, another branch tore loose from the tree and came crashing down on her. It knocked her off her feet and onto her knees. Ulysses was tossed out of her hand and into the night. It was pandemonium as she reached into the wind to save him. But, he was blown away, and out of sight.

"Ulysses!" she cried out. She stumbled to her feet, and struggled against the storm toward the field surrounding the house. She called to her little friend, but the sound of the thunder drowned out her voice. Lightning flashed across the sky. All alone again, in the darkness of a stormy night, Julie stood in the field, drenched and shivering... and calling out his name.

* * * *

It was a still, gray day after a storm. Ian and Annie had come by to help Julie with the mess, but they found themselves having to console her instead. She was distraught.

Annie held Julie’s hand and patted it. "Julie, you have to get a hold of yourself."

Julie did not want to be comforted. "I appreciate you guys coming to help, but I have to find him."

Annie held up her fingers and gestured the size of an inch. "Julie, he is only this big. It was a hurricane out there last night."

Ian looked at Annie for direction, not knowing what to make of Julie's despair. Annie wasn’t quite sure what to do either. She was more worried about her friend than she wanted to admit, but very aware of the delicacy of the situation. She didn’t want to do anything, or say anything, that would upset Julie any more.

Ian tried focusing Julie’s attention on the studio. "Maybe I can get started on the roof and the window. I looked the damage over, kiddo. It's not all that bad. It won't take me long to get you rolling again."

Julie stood and headed for the door. "I have to find him."

Annie followed Julie to the door and tried to stop her from opening it. "Julie, you have to let go. Maybe that's what this is all about, letting go. If you don't, you're going to lose everything."

Julie looked insistently at Annie, saying ‘get out of my way’ with her eyes, and then, "That is what this is about, Annie. You don't understand. I shouldn't have lost him."

* * * *

When Julie came in from the field she was despondent. She had not been able to find him. Ian and Annie had worked diligently to repair her studio before they left. The studio was quiet. Julie collapsed onto her work stool and stared out the window. She watched as droplets of water dripped from the leaves of the tree and the rim of the roof. They reminded her of tears, but she didn’t feel like crying. Her eyes wandered to the barrels, the only remnants of her shattered friendship with the cricket. She felt a heat rising in her belly.

She grabbed a hunk of clay and slammed it on her table. She pounded the clay and then slapped it and pounded it some more. Pushing, prodding, rolling, and slamming it again into the table she tried desperately to fight back the rage. But she failed. She clenched her hands into fists and then slammed them into the clay and pounded it again. She cried out "I can't do this! I can’t do this any more!"

From behind her came a wee, tiny voice with a familiar snap to it. "Won't!"

Julie couldn’t believe her ears. She stood bolt upright and there he was, limp-hopping through the doorway and looking up at her.

"I can't leave you alone for a minute Maxwell, I swear."

Julie started toward him. He flipped into the air and landed directly on his back. As Julie moved in for the rescue, he flipped himself right side up. He was so delighted with himself that he did a little dance-like step.

"Ulysses! How did you do that?"

"Well, if I waited around for you to take care of things no telling what might become of me,” he said pointedly, facing her down with his cricket stare.

Julie went down on one knee, near the little cricket. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Calling and calling. Where have you been?"

Ulysses ignored her question and did a little lopsided hop over to her knee and looked up at her. "Well?"

She extended her hand and raised him up near her face.

Ulysses looked her right in the eye. "The storm was a challenge, Max. I would have died out there if I hadn't figured this out. I couldn't give up." He looked all around the shop. "Kind of like you can't give up."

"Ulysses, where did you come from?"

"Are we going to go through that again?" He looked out the window and then up at Julie. She looked out the window. It was nearly nightfall. The sky was clear, and ribbons of starlight were just beginning to glisten in the dark.

"There is magic all around us, Max. It just depends on what you can see."

Julie took Ulysses into the house with her that night and put him in the hanging fern. As he disappeared into it, he sighed, "I rather miss my twig house."

"Don't worry, Ulysses, I'll make you another."

In her bed that night, Julie looked through Danny's art book at the clay cricket houses. She was intrigued. She studied the little forms. They were eerily like her old work, the best of it, only in miniature. She was fascinated. "But," she thought, "they would be impossible. You can't even master what's familiar." She touched the picture with her fingertips. "Are you afraid?" she asked herself. "Too afraid to even try?"

* * * *

The discipline of working in her studio was not easy to achieve. Not having worked for so long had taken its toll on her skill. The new clay she had wasn’t helping either. It was uncooperative. Resistant. She was having a very hard time.

Ulysses was watching her intently. The muscles in her neck were taut. She rolled and turned the clay. Kneading it, trying to infuse it with her energy, but still she could not find her rhythm. She raised a slab of clay over her head and slammed it to the table. Ulysses sprang into the air and disappeared.

"Oh no! Ulysses, I'm sorry! Where are you?"

"I don’t know where I am, Maxwell. I can't see anything."

Julie searched the floor. "You have to be able to see something."

"If I look up, I can see the roof."

Julie crawled along the floor toward the sound of his voice. "What if you look down?"

"Black."

"Black?" She tracked his voice to a stack of rocks and stones stashed in a corner behind her bisque kiln. Julie suddenly realized what it was. She moved quickly to the rocks. She looked in the spaces between them until she found Ulysses. She reached down, lifted him out and set him on the table. Her attention was then diverted beyond him. She stared at the rocks. "How could I have forgotten?” She lifted one stone from the pile and then another and another until she had uncovered the trap door. She lifted the door and began digging in the sandy soil beneath it. She dug faster and faster until she found the black plastic mound.

Ulysses watched from the table, "Well?"

"I can't believe it." She peeled back the plastic and stared at the large rectangle of clay. She ran her hands over it, remembering. She looked up at the little cricket searching for the meaning of this moment.

* * * *

Stay tuned. In the next episode Julie discovers a talent she never knew she had.