Learning to Fall
Page 27
My father’s grave was still one of the newest in the tiny cemetery, and when we first stood in front of it, I wasn’t sure what to do. A few colorless carnations spilled over from the plastic vase. I closed my eyes, hung my head, embarrassed that I hadn’t stopped in before.
Mom slid her hand in mine, her hand cold and damp. “I feel terrible I haven’t been here,” she said, reading my thoughts.
“Let’s fix this up,” I said, kneeling, pulling at the weeds. I picked out twigs and rocks from around the plot. It felt good to handle the dirt, to smell the soil, the earth under my nails.
“I’ll be right back!” Mom said, renewed vigor in her voice. Then she turned back. “Can I have the keys?”
I pulled them out of my jacket pocket and continued to work around Dad’s grave.
Within ten minutes, she returned, carrying a fresh bouquet of yellow roses and a stained glass vase. She dangled a paper bag in the other hand. “Candles.” She lifted the bag toward me.
We found a tap and filled the vase with water. Mom arranged the flowers while I found matches in the bag. We took our time lighting the candles. Each one was about five inches tall, encased in red glass.
“To Dad’s amazing love of horses,” I said as I lit the first one.
“To Luke, who brought light into my life.” Mom turned her eyes down as she lit her candle.
“To his ability to find humor in everything,” I continued.
“To his resilient spirit.”
“To his strength.”
“And courage.”
At the last two, Mom’s eyes found mine and held steady. “To Luke, the father of the best daughter I could ever have.”
My hand shook as I lit the last one. “To Dad, for finding you, the perfect mother.” A silent tear slid down her face.
We placed all the candles around the grave. They glowed and flickered and we continued to kneel. It felt right, to have the earth against my knees, to bow my head. I prayed for strength. I prayed for forgiveness.
A hawk flew overhead, his shadow flitting across the grave, dark contrasting with light. He circled, glided, soared, and then disappeared behind the hilltop. Mom’s reflection, and mine, merged in the granite of the tombstone, green and white, like the mountains and clouds reflecting across a lake, our imperfections a blur. Jason’s words rang through me. The best of intentions. That’s when I realized that I didn’t need to pray for forgiveness anymore. It was always me, the one whose forgiveness I sought. I had to forgive myself.
And I had.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a novel is something I’ve always dreamed of. When I was young, I convinced myself I first had to own a laptop before I could be considered a writer. I worked in academia and in biotech, and it wasn’t until I started my MBA, following the birth of my two girls, that my father presented me with a gift: a white MacBook. I said, “Now, then, I can finally write a novel.” It wasn’t for a couple of more years that nuggets took hold and the first scenes of Learning to Fall came to be. I’ve read that writing a novel is a lonely, solitary endeavor, yet it requires much support from others. This most certainly was my experience.
Each and every person who came into my life between 2010 and 2016 affected me in some way, taught me something, helped me become who I was: in essence, helped me create this novel. For the following I am most grateful:
Karen Bjorneby, for your kind and gentle guidance in the very first (secretive days) of my writing; Karen Dion, for Salt Cay and Backspace; the wonderful Backspace community members; Sandra Kring, for giving so freely of yourself. For everyone who read the many early drafts. For Betsy Johnson, one of the first readers and my huge supporters; Nancy Benovich-Gilby, for telling me you wanted more; Renata Nordell; Bonnie Glick, for those e-mail exchanges and walks at Filoli; Amy Hartman, for your friendship and support; Kris Waldherr and Atossa Shafaie, for your detailed notes and edits; Emma Sweeney, who initially signed me on and helped guide me. To Heather Lazare—I’m still wowed by your talent. Jim Thomsen, for helping me go the distance.
To Jacquelyn Mitchard, who made me believe that I am a writer and that I can. To Ellen Sussman—I learned so much from you. To Robert Goolrick—thank you for believing in me.
To my wonderful literary agent, Kevan Lyon, for keeping the faith.
To Emily Smith, for helping me find forgiveness, and to Jen Breen and the community at the Bainbridge Yoga House, for helping me during a tough transitionary year.
To Brooke Warner, Crystal Patriarche, Lauren Wise, and everyone else at SparkPress, for making this dream a reality.
A special thanks to my parents, who read several drafts and never gave up on me; to my daughters, Natalia and Alexandra, who’ve lived with this novel way longer than any child should; and to my husband, Craig, without whom this never would have come to be.
Lastly, to all the show jumpers and horse lovers and writers who aspire to do something courageous and new! Be brave. Follow your dreams. This is my gift, as small as it is, and I share it with you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne Clermont, born in Kraków and raised outside of Toronto, spent fifteen years in California before relocating to the beautiful Pacific Northwest. She holds a BS in animal biology, and an MBA. Her background ranges from studying animal behavior to carrying out pancreatic cancer research at one of the world’s largest and most innovative biotech companies. Inspired to write Learning to Fall in part by her own experience of running a show jumping business, she now devotes her time to writing and working as an editor and website designer. She lives on an island in the middle of Puget Sound with her husband and two children.
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SparkPress is an independent boutique publisher delivering high-quality, entertaining, and engaging content that enhances readers’ lives, with a special focus on female-driven work.
Visit us at www.gosparkpress.com.
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