Category: writing

Everything is the last

~ Meg ~ 38 Comments

I’m getting to the point now where everything I do is “the last” one I will do in America. My last Super Bowl, my last spring, seeing my doctor and dentist for the last time. I’m probably down to my final three hair appointments before we leave. You might remember that my stylist was also the one who encouraged me to write before I started.

So far, I haven’t been feeling the pangs of sorrow for these “lasts” until this weekend. I’m in the last season of shows at the Walnut Street Theater in Philadelphia. It’s the oldest continuously operating theater in the entire country, founded in 1809. I’ve had season tickets for the past 15 years with two of my girlfriends. There are 2 more shows to go and that will be the last for me. They will find someone to take my place next year.

As I stood at the counter of the gift shop in the theater lobby on Sunday, buying myself a little something by which to remember the theater, I actually welled up with tears. I have loved this place, loved these shows, Broadway productions: the singing, the dancing and the serious plays. Andrew Lloyd Webber, Cole Porter, Noel Coward, Oscar Wild, Arthur Miller, Rogers and Hammerstein and Lin Manuel Miranda…

I hope I find a new theater in Galway. I’m sure I will. And I hope I get as attached as I am to the Walnut.

Photos courtesy Philadelphia NBC 10, Neals Paper, and The Delco Times.

When We Were Beautiful

~ Meg ~ 51 Comments

My old friend, do you remember?
How hours rolled away slowly
Like the swash on a calm, clear day
As if we had all the time in the world
Summers full of sunlight
The sweet smell of heat and salt in the air
With unheavy hearts and unburdened minds
Sand between our brightly painted toes
Leaving fleeting footprints in the strand
Sunburned skin cooling to a tan
Beneath gauzy cotton dresses
Hanging lightly on our gazelle bodies
While the breeze tousled our tresses
Streaked with copper and gold
There were pretty boys we loved so desperately
But soon forgotten when the seasons changed
How easily broken hearts mended
When we were butterflies flitting in the wind
Yes I remember…
And I smile as I see what we’ve become
But now we will have fun again
Like we did when we were beautiful

The Commuter

~ Meg ~ 37 Comments

A short story by Meg Sorick.

There were five of them in the car as far as I could tell. Three squished in the back seat and two up front. I could hear the music blasting through the open windows. They all were singing along. Only teenagers could be that happy stuck in rush hour traffic. Lucky dogs.

We inched forward a little and I thought back to the summer between my junior and senior year of college. I had two jobs —both part time, both of them waitressing gigs— but it hadn’t prevented me from going out every night of the week. All my friends were doing the same kind of thing —working our summer jobs, sharing cheap apartments, surviving on Ramen noodles and thrift store clothes, so we had beer money instead. It might possibly have been the happiest time of my life.

In the car in front of me, the song changed and the kids sang louder. The old Chevy positively shook as they danced in their seats. I sighed. Where had the years gone?

Finally, thirty minutes later, the log jam broke and traffic started moving. I changed lanes and passed the concert on wheels. Stealing a glance over, I saw a snapshot of the past. Five carefree souls not worrying about a thing. Just you wait, my little darlings. Life is about to smack you in the face. Student loans, credit scores, mortgages, car payments, insurance, utilities, taxes…

I pulled in the driveway an hour and fifteen minutes after I left work. This commute was killing me. As I dropped my keys on the hall table and kicked off my shoes, I smelled the scent of tomatoes and garlic wafting from the kitchen. I followed my nose. My husband looked up from the stove when I entered. “Hey,” he said with a smile. “Kiss the cook?”

I kissed him, but I was distracted by the scene on the television in the corner. The news was on.

“Accident on the Schuylkill. Quite a mess,” my husband said.

The scene on TV was shot from a circling news helicopter. A crash. Two exits before mine.

“Lucky you were past it already,” he said. “Or you’d have been even later.”

I recognized the old Chevy. Life is about to smack you in the face…

(Header image thanks to Philly.com)