Thirty-One, A Novel

So glad to have you here, reading along with me over the next thirty-one days as we share Morgan's story.

For the month of October, I will be posting Morgan's story each day with short chapters of fiction, showing her transition as she navigates her days and opens her heart to discover the life around her.

Great to have you along on this journey.

            As the month progresses, I will post the chapters on my other blog, WordsbyMo.blogspot.com in consecutive order.

I am joining with The Nester and other bloggers who are writing one post a day for the month of October.

Scroll down for Day One.
Day Two  
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Day Eight
Day Nine
Day Ten
Day Eleven
Day Twelve
Day Thirteen
Day Fourteen
Day Fifteen
Day Sixteen
Day Seventeen
Day Eighteen
Day Nineteen
Day Twenty
Day Twenty-One
Day Twenty-Two
Day Twenty-Three
Day Twenty-Four
Day Twenty-Five
Day Twenty-Six
Day Twenty-Seven
Day Twenty-Eight
Day Twenty-Nine
Day Thirty
Day Thirty-One

DAY ONE, MONDAY

Morgan stood at the front window, her afternoon coffee mug wrapped snugly with both hands. October first. New month. What could make this month different, different from the last few months of - of what, of hollow void? What would have to happen to feel really different by October thirty-first? Life seemed so flat now that she was alone, alone and quiet and with nothing. Well, she had the house, she had stuff. But wasn’t life about more than that? She did not want the familiar old discouragement. This daily hamster wheel with its tired squeak.  It’s annoying, she thought. Going nowhere. I want different. New. Unusual. Fresh. A spark of life. Was it possible?

She leaned her head against the curtain, both hands wrapped around the warm mug, looking out the window, but not seeing.  Winter, coming soon.  She was not ready for the cold dark days of winter.

Across the street, a car pulled up. A family piled out, the three kids lugging backpacks. The mom walked to the back os the car, took out three big bags of groceries and balanced them in her arms, her purse slung over her shoulder. The youngest child, a little boy of about five threw his backpack onto the grass and climbed back into the car. Morgan didn’t really mean to be staring, eavesdropping, spying on the neighbors. She just happened to be looking out the window, sort of. But the activity caught her attention. She drew back a little, to be sure she wasn’t seen, guilty, but amused by the action across the street. She hadn’t talked to the new neighbors, though she had noticed their comings and goings since they moved in a few weeks ago.

The boy (she heard them call him Jimmy), brought out a puppy.  A bundle of yellow lab, snuggled in his arms. His sister and brother tossed their backpacks on the grass and competed for the puppy’s attention. It was a cozy, happy scene. Morgan smiled, watched them. The mom attempted to herd them into the house, juggled grocery sacks, keys and her purse. She gave up and went in the door with the groceries. The kids moved toward the door, slowly, talking to the puppy the whole way, coaxing it. The backpacks were left behind. Still watching, she saw the mom come back out front, pick up the abandoned backpacks and go back inside. The door closed.

Memories, the ones she didn’t want to face yet, flooded back to Morgan. The years of her own little ones. The years of the man, the boys’ father, coming in through the door at the end of the day. The house on the street lined with big trees, the stop sign at the corner. The years of…No. She snapped herself out of the reverie. She would go weed the flowers behind her house. Enough of this daydreaming, this thoughtfulness. No more of that, work to be done. Keep busy. That fixed it.  Work.   But there had to be something more. What was it?