Writing On Water

The story of an unplanned stop at the bookstore

Cynthia Walters was driving her fifteen-year-old Subaru wagon down Main Street. She had just finished running her errands for the day and was headed home for what she hoped was a quiet afternoon of writing.

Her life was very quiet these days. Even her car was quiet. It was not that long ago that the inside of her car was always very loud with the sounds of teenagers on their way to school or soccer practice or dance class or band rehearsal or football practice or drama auditions or proms or clothes shopping. But the kids had all grown up and moved on and since both her dog and her husband had passed away the previous year Cynthia was always alone now when she was driving her car.

She entered the last block of Main Street before the intersection with the highway. Taking a left turn at that intersection she would only be three minutes away from home. The traffic light at the intersection was red so there was no hurry to get to the intersection.

Cynthia looked to her right and noticed that all the parking spaces in front of the White Pelican Bookshop were empty. And that is when her hands and feet and body seemed to take over. She found herself pulling into one of those empty parking spaces.