Wherever the Wind Blows Me...
Laurie Elizabeth Murphy
Wherever the Wind Blows Me...
A Chronicle of Friendship
SPARROW HEART PUBLISHING
Copyright © 2012
by Laurie Elizabeth Murphy
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ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0783-8
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First Edition, March 4, 2012
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to Bonnie Banker Singer, and our friendship of over 46 years. She’s taught me everything I know about humility, strength, courage, stamina and perseverance.
We met at the Mount Sinai Hospital School of Nursing in New York City, and not only survived the next three years of impossible classes and work schedules, but found an affordable apartment in Manhattan following graduation. By then, the world was mine to own. By then, fate stepped in and dealt her an unfair hand. Time has taken its toll. I hope she can still remember that it was she who kept our apartment orderly and clean, made certain that the rent was paid on time, and that our fridge was stocked with food. She has an infectious laugh, a compassionate heart, and rhythm. That girl could really dance!
As so often happens with long-distance friendships, even the most well-intentioned plans of remaining in touch become riddled with years of absences. Mostly, these are my offenses, not hers. She not only continues to forgive my broken promises, but thanks me each time I call. I know I don’t deserve her friendship, but I am forever grateful. Her life’s path has been incredibly difficult, but she has always handled it with dignity and grace.
God bless you, Pookie. You are a true role model, a great friend, and my hero.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
As always, I am thankful for Divine Intervention, placing us where we need to be, when we need to be there.
INTRODUCTION
This is the story of friendship, carved out by the universe—destined. It is the coming together of two unlikely souls, colliding in a celestial moment and setting in motion the rest of their lifes’ journey.
It is only true if you believe it is, and sad, only if you cannot see past tomorrow.
Wherever the Wind Blows Me...
CHAPTER ONE
I am not pleased. It appears that someone has purchased the little house that sits next door to where I live. The house that I wanted to buy. I haven’t seen them yet, but there is action going on. A car in the driveway, a light over the front door. Mowed grass. It has been empty for so long, I just assumed it would always be there, waiting for me.
In truth, I couldn’t have bought it. I know that. Everyone I ever told of my intentions knew that. Still, it could have happened. People win stuff. I could have won something, money or something. Then I could have made a serious offer. Then I could maybe, someday, buy that house.
I wonder who they are. Most likely pretentious. This is a pretentious neighborhood. Maybe young, a nosey woman who gossips too much. A man who lifts weights and drinks before five. The house is small. Maybe an older couple, retired. A couple who hates noise, and children. And dogs.
From the beginning, there was something about the little house. It just sits there, unassuming. Expecting nothing. Proud, but neglected. It calls to me when I walk in the cul-de-sac. Notice me, it yearns. I do, I say. I think you’re beautiful. It blushes with embarrassment, and stands a little taller.
And now this. Strangers, coming to defile my house. Coming with their negativity and tensions, their emotional baggage and material worthlessness. I will put a curse on the house, I think. I know absolutely nothing about curses, but still, I close my eyes and wish really hard that they will go away. But when I open my eyes, their car is still there.
It doesn’t matter who they are, I think. They can be nice, or mean, friendly or hostile. They can be young or old, healthy or sickly. Regardless of their life circumstances, they can keep their stories to themselves. I am not interested in hearing about places they’ve traveled or hobbies they’ve mastered. I don’t much care about people they have met along the way. I don’t like them.
CHAPTER TWO
Their lights have been on for the past two weeks, but I can’t see much of anything through the windows. When I take the garbage cans out to the street, I face forward but my eyes dart to the right, struggling to catch a glimpse of the people I hate. There is noise. A lot of noise. Hammering, mostly. Late at night, which is against the ordinances of our snooty community, but they don’t know enough to quiet down, or they don’t care. I don’t care either. Neither does anyone else in the circle. Maybe they’re renters, fixing up the place for a year’s stay before they move on. A year wouldn’t be so bad. Less would be better.
CHAPTER THREE
