By Sue O’Neill
It’s freezing here in Massachusetts, and the wind is, as they say, *wicked.* Strange: the calendar claims it’s Spring.
Spring is a time of transition. Of Leavings: leaving the icy clutches of winter (please, oh lord—soon); leaving the cocoon of couch and afghan; leaving holidays where excess—of food, of gifts, of celebration—is both a feature and the true point. Leaving the dark, the dull, the closed, the buried, the cold.
In honor of Spring, we are offering you six stories about Leavings. You will probably find it ironic, when you read them, that the one whose title says it all is the only one that really doesn’t fit the subtler nuances of the theme as I’ve stated it.
Which is what I get for reaching so hard to find a common point, so I can extol it in the artificial construct of this editorial.
My hands are numb on my keyboard, and the little pine outside is whipping at my window. The maple in my neighbor’s yard claws desperately, leaflessly, at a dead grey sky. The puddles in the driveway are glass; the yard, cement.
Screw it—you read these terrific stories. Me? I’m…leaving.
Copyright © 2006 Sue O’Neill
Angel by Mary Miller
Light of Day by Joanne Comito
The Compliments They Slip You by Alan Beard
The White Cat by Gordon Grice