You must be a few whiskeys in before you can truly comprehend the genius behind Hemingway. There is a certain threshold of boundaries that simply dissolve and allow thoughts and feelings to flow through a siphon to establish a pure formed story. Time and space probably play a part, but that is harder to pinpoint. With this siphon, what stays, what is flushed out, it is impossible to decipher but what emerges is either amazing or utter garbage to the reader.

Her head was full. It was like the days when she was a smoker and would walk outside to strike a match. With the first inhale of smoke filling her lungs something was released. An exhale of joy or sadness whatever the moment held. A promise made but somehow forgotten. When would it end really? Self-sacrifice or forgiveness of others never really filled the void this had all made in her heart. An attempt to explain it seemed ridiculous. Win some, lose some, but somehow this was different. She needed answers, she needed someone other than herself to be an adult, be who they claimed to be, accept some responsibility.

You see her. How could she be missed in a cathedral full of smiles, polished looks and muddy shoes? Her hair is matted, and strands twisted strands peeking from underneath the worn hat. Her eyes wide and rimmed with red from numerous late nights and early mornings. Shaky hands that continue to twirl her hair and make swift swipes under a dry nose. You can’t stop and say hello because that would just open the can of worms you know she has been carrying in her handbag for months. And to acknowledge the hidden can might mean you made a mistake. But it is there. Pulsing like a heartbeat that is destined to survive. It is not going away anytime soon. She stands. Begins walking toward the alter. Either unaware or uncaring of the eyes that are burning into the back of her neck. “You left me,” she whispers, but in the quiet space it almost sounds like a scream. “You left me, and no one can explain why” she mutters as she falls to her knees. His robe creates a swoosh as he turns to walk away.

Her hand reaches out just in time to feel the silky fabric flutter through her hand. She clutches her fist around the empty air. She stands and turns to face the crowd. “This was my home, too. I worked hard just as hard as all of you to build it. I believed in every brick, every beam, every bit of drywall, every brush of paint. But when the roof started to cave in and I lay my body over her to protect her from the falling debris, you went to dinner. I lie awake at night and wonder if Christ came in here bearing the weight of his cross, would you help Him carry it? Would you help Him up off the cold floor and tend to His fractured body? Or would you walk away and believing it someone else’s responsibly to help? I guess only one of us will ever know the answer to a lot of questions.”

She turns on her heels and steps out into the cold; the frigid air takes her breath away for a split second. Almost instinctively her hand reaches deep into her pocket and pulls to the surface the long, forgotten pack of smokes. A little deeper reach divulges a box of matches. As she presses her finger to the tip of the match and draws it along the striking strip along the box. A quick flash of light followed by the faint stench of sulfur feels her nose. Just like riding a bike the memory of bringing the cigarette to parted lips as the flame and tobacco unite is just like it was yesterday. As the smoke fills her lungs, she exhales with a small cough. She dips her nose down into the warmth of her scarf, drops the cigarette on the ground. Crushes it out as if she is extinguishing all the hurt in her splintered heart and with all the pieces of her that remain, she smiles and walks away because sometimes winning looks an awful lot quitting….