Trusting the Currents by Lynnda Pollio

Author:Lynnda Pollio
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literary Fiction, Commercial Fiction, Women’s Fiction, Spirituality, Inspiration
ISBN: 978-0-0901953-1-7
Publisher: SageHeart Media via Indie Author Project
Published: 2013-11-05T00:00:00+00:00

T E N

The letter came from Miss Blanchard’s hometown but was not her hand. Her proper name now was Layton since she married, though I still called her Miss Blanchard. Being such a hefty letter, I waited until after supper to open it so to gorge myself on every word.

“Dear Addie Mae,” it began harmless enough. “My name is Homer Layton, Suzanna’s husband.” Suzanna. Her born name is Suzanna, a pretty name for such a pretty-hearted woman. “This is a hard letter to write, but Suzanna wanted me to tell you honest. She talked about you all the time, how proud she was of you. She saw a bit of the best part of her own future living in you; the dreams she had to give up because of only having one life to live, and choosing this one with me. That’s why I hurt to write that she died on July 23rd.”

“She died on July 23rd.”

“She died.”

“Died.”

I must have read those words hundred times over before my eyes could leave the ugly hole they created in my life.

“Not being a doctor, I can’t quite say what exactly happened but there was a problem with the child she was bearing, a son who died with her. I’m grateful something she loved so much joined her with God. I know little Jaziah, that’s what we called him, was sent to bring her home. She was ill for a very short time. The end occurred quite suddenly, with little pain. One of her last thoughts was of you, Addie Mae. She wanted you to have this.”

It was the torn pages of a book, folded over something and knotted tight with yellow string. Thoreau was scribbled across the top in Miss Blanchard’s fussy writing. She circled the parts she wanted me to read:

I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live and could not spare any more time for that one. It is remarkable how easily and insensibly we fall into one particular route and make a beaten track for ourselves. I had not lived there a week before my feet wore a path from my door to the pond-side; and though it is five or six years since I trod it, it is still quite distinct. It is true I fear that others may have fallen into it, and so helped to keep it open. The surface of the earth is soft and impressible by the feet of men; and so with the paths which the mind travels. How worn and dusty then, must be the highways of the world—how deep the ruts of tradition and conformity! I did not wish to take a cabin passage, but rather to go before the mast and on the deck of the world, for there I could best see the moonlight amid the mountains. I do not wish to go below now.

I learned this, at least, by my

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