Background
Thirty something, Jameson meets seventy something Iris and they bond over coffee. This is the story of their unlikely friendship.
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This novella is written in dual first person points of view. Each chapter will be marked as to who is narrating. So far, Jameson is in the midst of a divorce, and has opted to be Iris's emergency contact. Iris is starting to show more signs of heart failure. She has changed her will. Now she finds out she is the subject of church gossip.
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JAMESON
Working like a maniac, I manage to finish two small jobs. The good thing about my line of work is I get automatic payments as soon as I submit the finished job. Today I venmo money to Claire for Finny's expenses. I venmo Amanda as well. If I know Claire, she isn't giving Amanda a dime for watching Fin. Within ten minutes I get a texted thank you from Mandy. I hear nothing from Claire.
I take a shower, order a pizza and while I wait I dig through the closet for my leather bound journal. My mother gave it to me several years ago. Claire tucked it away, her subtle way of discouraging my silly hobby.
I wander over to the couch. I slide my palm across the smooth soft cover. My initials are stamped in the lower right corner. The edges of the pages are gold. It's showy, I'm used to notebooks from the Dollar General. But tonight, I'm going to christen this.
Tonight, I will write for Iris.
The pizza is cold when I finally set my pen down. It's rough. I haven't written in so long, but it feels incredible. The words, images pouring out of me. Four pages, edited, scratched through in hurried passes. Now, I have something, rough and raw, yet I feel like Iris will like it.
Blushing skies
like a nervous bride rising,
peeking over hilltops of gold.
The world awaits
Another day of wheat fields,
swaying under gentle winds.
Dragonflies lighting on dancing stalks.
She bounds out, tangled hair
and bare feet.
Cunning and agile
Fighter of imaginary foes.
Curling toes in fresh cold mud.
Childish ways like summer heat
pass, and she grows
Woman's body and sharpened mind.
Heart taken by a kindred spirit.
She is tickled when a child arrives,
with freckles and pale skin.
A fleeting being, one day gone.
Still she sees him, pictures tucked
in her heart.
A heart now beating for both.
Loves now seen in the reflection of
the blushing skies.
I read it over and over. It needs tweaking. I know I can polish it over time, but time is the one thing I don't have with Iris. If I know Iris, like I think I do, she will like it.
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Iris makes her way to the table. She's a few minutes late, but I filled my idle time by calling and talking to Fin.
"I'm so sorry, Jameson. I got tied up at the hairdressers. I should have called. Have you been waiting long?" She is winded and I jump up to get her chair for her.
"You look lovely. Worth the wait."
She laughs as she settles into the seat. "So, you've gotten a lot of work done?"
"Probably more in the past couple of days than in the entire time since Claire left."
"That's good, right?"
I nod. "How was your evening with Miss Gertrude?"
Iris raises one eyebrow, slowly shaking her head. "She is something else. I'll leave it at that."
"Sounds like there's a story there ... but I probably don't need to hear it."
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you."
Small talk fills the time between the waitress taking our orders and returning with our steaming mugs.
I finally work up the nerve to show her the poem. I rewrote it on a clean sheet of paper.
"I, uh, wrote something. I'm not Keats, but I hope you like it." I slide the folded paper over to her.
She smiles pleasantly as she reads. I watch as the words start to sink in. There is no mistaking the poem is about her. Blue eyes lift to meet mine. "I don't know what to say."
"Do you like it?"
"It's beautiful. You've captured my life. Each line," she says, eyes welling with tears. "I could see John and I running out the door, straight into the fields. We used to have a mud bakery after it rained. Mud pies and cakes. Ooh, my mother would get so mad at us for getting dirty." She pauses and looks down at the paper. "You really wrote this about me? You are truly gifted, Jameson. Don't ever let anyone tell you differently."
"It's easy when you have the right inspiration and the right audience."
She folds the paper and starts to hand it back but hesitates. "May I have this?"
"That's for you to keep."
Iris slides it into her purse beside her. She can't stop smiling, as she sips her coffee she blanches. "Your poem got my mind off my coffee making. I forgot to add my sweetener." Once her coffee is up to par, she continues smiling.
The look on her face is better than any literary accolade. And for the first time in quite a while, I feel like a writer again.
