Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) đ
- Author: Eva Everson
Book online «Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) đ». Author Eva Everson
âBut, Michelle, I always knew she was your real mother. Genetics or not.â
âMom,â she answered firmly. âNo. You.â She caught my eyes with hersâhers and her fatherâs. âYou. And if you think youâll leave nothing behind, if you think that nothing matters but the dust our bones return to, then look again. There are a lot of mothers out there with you to thank.â She glanced toward the shelf again. âYour name should be on those plaques. Those awards.â
For long moments we said nothing, the only sound in the room a steady tick-tick-tick coming from the wall clock, counting away the seconds. âWell, well âŠâ I finally said as a lone tear slid down my cheek. âWhat do you know about that âŠâ
We sat in silence a few minutes until Michelle cleared her throat and said, âKerry Livgren wrote âDust in the Wind.ââ
âWhat?â
âThat song. Kerry Livgren wrote it.â
I raised my chin a little. âDid Patterson teach you that, too?â
âWell, he got me interested enough to know who wrote that and âCarry On Wayward SonââPatterson was big into the 70sâand then I did my own research.â She shrugged. âI like music and, obviously, I like research.â
âI remember when you were big into the 70s.â
âYeah, well, that was also Pattersonâs influence.â She scooted forward in her chair. âThanks to him, I fell in love with all types of music and I learned to research the stories behind the songs, the groups, the singers. That kind of thing.â
My daughterâs love for musicâan interest that had grown during her senior year in high schoolâresonated in her telling. âI remember you playing Sinatra at Christmas.â
Her face lit. âAh, yes. Francis Albert Sinatra. They donât make âem like that anymore.â She stood and indicated I should do the same. We were leaving. We were going home.
âYou know, I told your father a long time agoâwell, I may not get this quite rightâbut I told him that all the people in our lives touch us. They leave a fingerprint. Some for a moment, some for a lifetime.â Michelle flipped off the light as I continued. âSome of those people we never even meet.â
âWe are influenced by all sorts of people,â she said, her voice playful. Philosophical. Dr. Phil again. âNo doubt about it. Even those who ended up having a negative effect can leave positive breadcrumbs along the way.â
âYou donât say âŠâ
Her arm looped with mine as the elevator door opened and, in unison, we stepped inside.
âHe saw them in concert once.â
âWho?â
âYour daddy. He saw Kansas in concert.â
âWow,â she said as though she were contemplating her father at a rock concert. âHe never told me that.â Then she laughed. âDo you know, for the longest time, I thought they were singing, âKerry, youâre my wayward son.ââ
âWhat?â
âSeriously.â And then she sang the words. âKerry, youâre my wayward so-on âŠâ
The elevator doors slid shut to capture the echo of our laughter.
And somewhere, somehow, I thought I caught the rhythm of Westley laughing with us.
After
When I think back on it, I realize I never received a formal proposal of marriage. Not really, anyway. Westley never got down on one knee, never presented me with a diamond ring sparkling above a blanket of black velvet, prisms shooting out in the moonlight. There was no sweet scent of honeysuckle wafting from my motherâs garden. No violins playing in a quiet Italian restaurant while candles flickered atop checkered tablecloths. He never said the words womenâespecially those reared in the Southâdream of. Never said, âWill you marry meâ or âWill you make me the happiest man in the world and be my brideâ or âmy wifeâ or any of the phrases that accompany dreams.
Westley never promised me a perfect life. He never promised me forever.
What he saidâif I remember the words clearly after all these yearsâwas âWell, that sounds good.â
And I suppose it was.
The End
CHRISTMAS FICTION FROM EVA MARIE EVERSON
VISIT NEWHOPEPUBLISHERS.COM FOR MORE INFORMATION.
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