May
Dad turned off the air conditioner in the whale-sized Oldsmobile as we neared Sandbridge. The briny smells of the ocean wafted through the windows rousing my sisters and I from our sleep. Though eleven hours in the same seat had exhausted me, the salty breeze swept away any discomfort that I had considered complaining about.
As we turned the corner at Sandfiddler Road, I saw my first glimpses of the ocean through the dunes and sea oats. Dad, havng seen the waters before, continued to plow his way down the sand-covered road at an excruciatingly slow pace searching for the beach house that would be our home for the next two weeks. I longed to jump from the car and run straight to the ocean, convinced it had been there waiting just for me.
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No Comments- Published by Izzie Crossen in: Izzie Crossen On Meeting Molly
“…and in Jesus’ name we pray. Amen,” said Reverend Kelley. He signaled for the casket to be lowered into the grave.
I’m wondering again what the hell has become of my life. Standing in front of my mailbox in the lobby of my apartment building, I stare at the scarred sticker that bears my name: Molly Welton. I’ve lived here for a couple of months now, but can’t for the life of me, remember why I moved here. I hate the city with all of its noises and bustle and crime. In fact, I’m not much of a fan of Cleveland itself. I hate being cold and that word, along with all of its synonyms, is the essence of our weather forecasts.
Pretend Jesus strode down Hollywood Boulevard in a burlap robe eating salad from a plastic container. He smiled beatifically at tourists and the tattooed kids standing outside the tattoo parlor as he munched down lettuce and baby tomatoes. He wondered if there was anything more divine than crisp lettuce and succulent baby tomatoes on a mild spring day in Los Angeles.
Molly Ravenhardt had recruited me to help her collect corn stalks for the high school art department’s annual Halloween “Witch Walk” since I was sixteen, thus able to drive.
