Rachel lingers on the bench outside the Afterglow Journey Center. She pulls Mrs. Stone’s book of poetry out of her briefcase and reads the next poem. It’s 10:20 AM.

We sit on the couch an inch apart, a sea between us.

He grips my hand as a line thrown to a drowning man ~

The weight of his fear threatens to pull me under.

I slam the journal shut and stuff it back in my briefcase. My veins fill with rage that instantly boils; its heat stings my limbs and I feel my mouth could spit flames if someone were to speak to me. I jump up, grab my stuff and march around the center’s sidewalk to cool off. Get a grip, Rachel!

I reach the gazebo in the middle of the serene private park behind our center where the Stone’s spent every afternoon—no matter what the weather. It was a gift from the couple, a parcel of land they had donated a dozen years ago or so. A portion of their quarterly donation goes to upkeep and it’s a huge selling point for prospective residents. I made sure my office window faced the luscious foliage the minute I accepted the promotion to director.

I drink in the fall colors stuffed in that small piece of real estate: leaves on fire, some golden delicious, others as orange as pumpkins; deep purples and maroons all in concert—one last crescendo before the show ends and winter clears the stage.

I open the screen door to the gazebo and lower my numb body onto the bench inside. What did they talk about out in here every afternoon? I play back scenes in my mind of times I watched them from my office window walking hand-in-hand to this place and try to recall if I ever saw them speak at all. I reach for the journal and lay it on my lap. It falls open on its own.

Here we are safe, untouched by the lie

Just you and me, my love, safe from its rule.

Tell me what it is about here ~

What is it that gives you peace in this place?

I don’t need to know, my love

Don’t try to speak ~

For here your mind can rest, if only for an hour

Here we are safe, untouched by the lie.

I glance up at the title of the piece and I freeze: Gazebo. How freaky is that? How does a page from a journal just fall open to a poem about the very place where I am sitting? This thing is going back to Mrs. Stone a.s.a.p. This is just too weird.

I look at my watch; it’s 10:45. She could still be in Mr. Stone’s room packing his stuff. I scurry back around to the front of the center and into the lobby. Tina’s tilted back in her chair behind the reception desk texting on her iPhone and laughing at something someone is saying into her earpiece. I should fire that girl.

She sees me and tosses her phone on the counter. Now in an upright position, Tina cuts off her caller and says, “Here are some messages for you Ms. Cox.” I take the slips from her hand.

“Tina, is Mrs. Stone still in Mr. Stone’s room?”

The girl’s mouth is open but nothing comes out. She looks at the phone messages in my hand and then back up at my eyes. “Uh, Mrs. Stone?”

“Yes, Tina, Mrs. Stone. Is she still here? I was just with her in Mr. Stone’s room an hour-and-a-half ago. I want to know if she’s still here.”

Tina looks at me like I’m one of the Alzheimer’s residents. What is this girl’s problem?!

To be continued….

(read parts one through ten online at: www.thecommunityword.com/online – click on Doors & Windows)