Somewhere in the Middle of a Story

By

Julia Kris Graham

It had all started long before she was even born. Things beyond her control were set in motion, and she was just a small thread in the tapestry the old blind woman wove as she hummed and rocked back and forth in her rocking chair by the hearth as she told a story.

Ever since she could remember the little girl of three dreamed this dream: she stood at her window looking out to the west where there should be a setting sun instead there was a mushroom cloud from a large explosion. She would run to her parents to tell them it had happened just like in her dream and realize later she was still trapped deep in sleep’s grasp. When she truly did awake from her dream, rub the sand from her eyes and the morning light of reality filled her room, the experience of the dream world colored her spirit and caused her to believe at a very young age there was more to life than what met the eye during the day. And in a land rich with deep green forested hills that melted into bright golden fields and long twisting rivers, here was where the little girl experienced many wonderful adventures and all because of one reoccurring dream that opened her eyes.

In the cool of the early morning she would wake to the sounds of her mother starting breakfast in the kitchen. The aroma of coffee drifted into her room at the end of the hall and the smell of bacon and fresh bread made every thing feel warm and peaceful, even more so when the cool morning air blew in through the open window. She would lie in bed for a while, snuggled under the heavy old quilts, listening to her father’s deep booming voice as he spoke to her mother or read passages to her from the bible, catching a few words here and there. Her mothers voice however, was soft like the rain and she could never make out any of her words yet she recognized the melody. Finally feeling brave, she would throw back the blankets, wrap herself in her robe and scamper stocking footed down the cold hardwood floor to the warmth of the kitchen.

"Maia!" her father said holding out his arms for her to jump into. There in his arms she always felt safe, perfect and like anything was possible. "Good Morning Papa!" Maia said, rubbing the stubble on her father’s chin, and she smiled up at him. He leaned down kissing her on what he called her sweet spot, the bridge of her nose right between her eyes.

"Will you please go out to the hen house and fetch the eggs." Maia’s mother held out the wire basket for collecting eggs. Maia hopped off her father’s lap and grabbed the basket all in one graceful motion.