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Author, Lela Anderson Stute 

THE INCIDENT

THE INCIDENT

Open the door, quietly.

Take a good look.

Shhh….Anya is sleeping.

Anya is five years old.

Anya is a blonde haired, blue eyed girl.

The only outstanding feature she has is she is very thin.

She has waist length blonde hair. (She does right now.)

She has huge blue eyes. People call her frog eyes. (They do right now.)

Anya lives the life most Americans dream about.

What is wrong with her?

What is right?

Nothing.

Everything.

Anya lives a privileged life, or does she?

She has everything, doesn’t she?

She has parents, she lives in a beautiful home.

Anya doesn’t know poverty, she has never gone without material things.

Come along with me, follow this girl’s life from age five to age 85.

Wake up with her this morning, look through the eyes of a five-year-old girl.

Take your last breath with her at age 85.

Feel­­­­­­­ the rejection, the hope, fear and loss of a woman who didn’t know how to live life, until it was gone……….


THE INCIDENT

I almost fell asleep, I haven’t slept in years, 

I doze off sometimes but I don’t sleep, not really.

I live a quiet life, here alone with my two French bulldogs, Larry and June. 

They are my companions. They are probably my best and only friends. 

They stay close to me. They know when I am troubled or on the verge of tears. 

When my pain is intense, June will lay across my chest. I feel our hearts beat in unison. 

Somehow, I feel that she absorbs my anguish, or maybe she shares it.                                                                                                                           

Whatever it is, she helps me, with her warmth, her breathing – just being with me.

I don’t cry either, not really. 

Sometimes a tear will fall out of my eye but I don’t cry.

I don’t feel much of anything anymore after the incident

Let me ease into the memory of that incident. 

It was so long ago, it still stings a little, but not too much.

I don’t feel very much emotional pain either.

Well, maybe, I do, somewhat.

The only tangible discomfort I feel is physical. 

The sharp pain sears down my back into my legs, my fingertips even my teeth. 

The physical discomfort is manageable compared to the emotional suffering. 

Emotional suffering is deep, aching, unbearable.

It gets into your heart, your brain, every fiber of your being.

Physical wounds are easier. 

I can take a deep breath and count to 100 slowly. 

I can manage discomfort. 

I pick up the discomfort and put it on the table next to me. 

It doesn’t hurt too much.

Grief, well, I won’t talk about it. I’m not ready.


 

This book is dedicated to my best friend, Linda

To Bill

To Jim

To all my sons

To all my son’s wives

To my new sisters and brother

To my grandchildren

To my great-grandchildren

To all my pets

To my neighbors who loved and watched over me

To Melanie who brought Cousin into my life

Thank each one of you.

 

 

 


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