by K. S. Adkins
“Drum,” I whisper trembling.
“Chicago, New York, and Los Angeles,” he booms and the place went wild cheering. Covering my mouth to hide my shock, he takes my hands away to kiss me and whispers. “For you, Time.”
This wasn’t the first time I stood still, nor would it be my last.
My wedding day…
Mom was pulling my hair into a flawless twist. She did this gently, gracefully, like she did most things. There was nothing she couldn’t do. My mom lost her sight before I was born but she saw more than anyone else I have ever met. Even now, on my wedding day, she styles my hair better than any salon ever could. My mom had one rule growing up. We did not use the words can’t or never. She has always been fierce and passionate about life. Not only was she respected at the center, she was a speaker, mentor, and pioneer. We’ve traveled the world as a family and I was blessed to be raised by parents who dedicated their lives to helping others.
Nothing stopped her from living her life, she was a woman to envy. When I was ten, I watched her pilot a plane. At twelve, she drove a stock car and when I was sixteen she joined a bowling league. At eighteen, we both went sky diving while dad waited below. He asked her if she was afraid and my mom joked with him like always saying, “If I’m going to eat pavement, at least I don’t have to see it! It’ll be a surprise!” Dad, as usual, did not laugh but my Papa fell over with it. He also stood next to my dad and watched us with worried eyes. My Papa was an asshole. Just not to his family. Especially not to mom.
Recently, she heard about a man named Randy Montgomery who was walking across America. It was my mom who laced up her shoes and kept him company for thirty miles. Dad bowed out at the five mile mark but he did what he always did; followed her in case she needed him.
I grew up in an artistic home. A place where I was free to express myself and encouraged to follow my dreams. Who knew that in my second year of college it would lead me to my soon to be husband, Thomas.
I was majoring in law, he was majoring in music.
We fell in love immediately.
Thomas was blind.
I did not care.
I loved everything about him, including his blindness. Unlike my mom, he was born without sight. Just like her, it didn’t slow him down. Growing up, my heroes were my very own parents. I now add Thomas to that list.
With the help of my parents, I opened my own firm last year. As a disability rights attorney, I fight for the men like Thomas, women like my mom, and the children who need an advocate. Everyone deserves a voice and I was determined to give them one.
Thomas and I were proof that anything was possible.
He was raised by blind parents, I was raised by a blind mother.
Like my dad always tells me; you don’t need sight to see. All I had to do was look at my mom, and now at Thomas, to know he spoke true.
“There,” she says spraying my hair in place. “Perfect.”
“Mom?”
“Hmm?” she asks trailing her fingers over my skin. The comfort that provides me will never fade. There was nothing on this earth like my mother’s touch. I would never tire of it.
“We have the same eyes,” I whisper.
“We do,” she says softly.
“I look just like you too.” When she smiles down at me, I take her hand and press it to my cheek. Mom and I looked identical. Mom lost her sight young but I was glad she’d always remember herself that way, although, the years have been kind to her. My mom grew more beautiful every day. Dad said it was the universe giving something back to her. “I love Thomas like you love dad.”
“I know, baby,” she says softly. “I can feel it.”
“Can you feel this?” I ask taking her hand from my face and placing it on my tummy.
Watching her eyes widen, the crystal blue shining like mirrors to my own. I loved that she kept her eyes open. That they followed sound and crinkled when she smiled. Her hand rubs soft circles over the dress covering my new bump and I smiled watching her. I didn’t worry she would chastise me. My mom didn’t do things like that. She was open-minded, kind, and loving. She believed in dreams and fate. When she went still, I covered her hands with my own. “Mom?”
“My baby’s having a baby,” she says pressing her cheek to my tummy giving me the perfect view of her hair. I’ve never known her to have less than twenty colors in it. My mom was so pretty, sometimes it was hard to look at her. Color spun around her at all times. Color embraced my mom. I felt my mom’s love at all times.
“We didn’t plan it,” I assure her wanting her to know we were careful.
“Carolyn,” she smiles then sits up to face me. “The best things in life aren’t planned. I didn’t plan to lose my sight but I’m glad I did. Had I not, I wouldn’t have your dad or you. I’d do it all over again to be right here. Remember to count your blessings not question them.”
That was my mom for you.
Seriously, she saw everything.
When I was born, she hung a large canvas over my crib that she painted when she had her vision. It was of the life she saw for herself. The piece begins with her adventures with my dad but it was clear, even if she hadn’t known then, that the empty space was saved for me. As the years passed she added our adventures to it. Her hand just as steady and sure without sight as it was with it. My mom’s gift to me wasn’t just love and protection. It was freedom, humor, and compassion too. My mom was a dreamer and that same canvas hangs over the bed I share with Thomas.
But soon, it would hang over our child’s crib and kissing my mom’s cheek, I stood us both up and whispered, “Your grandchild is going to see everything, mom. I can’t wait for you to show her.”
I saw it then.
In my mom’s eyes.
She was thinking about that canvas just like I was. When she smiled that devilish smile, I knew she was planning more adventures. My mom lived for them. My dad lived to make them come true. My parents lived for each other. Thomas and I lived for each other. They showed me what true love looked like and I had found it for myself.
Dad knocks on the door, it was time. We squeeze each other’s hands and giggle. Thomas and I chose to marry in the home I grew up in. Papa lived with them now, he could no longer live independently. But mom didn’t cut him any slack. They riled each other up to drive my dad nuts. Papa loved her for it. “Before I die, Carolyn!” he yells from the living room.
Laughing out loud, mom leads me to the door and kisses my cheek.
“Let’s get you married,” she whispers in my ear.
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
Taking her hand one last time, I place it on my tummy and tell her, “If we have a girl, her name will be Bella.”
For the record; watching Time stand still never got old.
Sitting in the grass with Bella in my lap, her tiny fingers content digging in the dirt, I closed my eyes while the sun kissed my skin. Infants simply amazed me. How fast time passes by. She was just beginning to distinguish sights and sounds. Through her, I did the same. It was a beautiful lesson, a refresher course I did not mind taking.
I pictured her features, soft and sweet like a cherub.
Her coos, her giggles and her squirms all like her mother’s had been.
Drum was nearby, keeping an eye like always. You’d think after all these years he’d take a break from watching me. But that wasn’t who Drum was. Drum lived to make my life easier and he’s never stopped. He and Carolyn were one hell of a duo when she was growing up. Neither one wanted life to be difficult for me. Because of them, it wasn’t.
Because of them, life was just life.
Life with my family was more than even a dreamer like me could have ever imagined. And believe me, I dreamed big.
Dad was on the deck sound asleep in his wheelchair snoring. I’m telling you, he did this on purpose and I loved him for it. For a man pushing eighty-seven, he was still an asshole. But he was my asshole, the only dad I ever had.
Carolyn an
d Thomas stayed for dinner like they did every Sunday. A simple meal turned into jokes, laughter, occupying Bella and hours flying by. You don’t notice time passing when your heart is full. Funny how we forget that. Time was once my greatest enemy. I feared it, tried hiding from it yet it still moved on. Bella’s yawn breaks me of these thoughts. Kissing the top of her head, I inhale her baby scent and reminded myself that time waits for no one. Which was a good thing since I’d been spending my waking moments making the most of what I’ve been given.
Drum and I kissed them each goodbye at the door followed by arguing with dad until he fell asleep. Like every night, he insists he isn’t tired. These few moments are when time drags on and I got a kick out of it. (Drum not so much) Because these are my precious moments with dad. It wasn’t about sleep, it was about more time together. We both knew it, it didn’t need to be said. In the end, he fights it but loses the battle to stay awake. I never call him out on him falling asleep the second his head hits the pillow either.
At least not until the following morning.
One day I won’t have these times with Dad anymore. One day, they’ll be memories. Fortunately for us, he was determined to stick around and made it clear someone needed to keep my foul mouth in check. That man was a lot of things but he gave me Drum, I loved him for that alone.
Drum was close.
His thrusts becoming shallow, his breathing erratic.
His grip firm, his lips soft.
“What color are my eyes,” he whispers.
“Espresso,” I moan. “With flecks of jade.”
“My hair,” he says biting my bottom lip. “What color is it?”
“Black,” I moan while arching my back. “Like a raven’s wing.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Green,” I cry out as it over takes me.
“I won’t come until you say it,” he grunts like always.
“I love you, Drum.”
That’s when it hits him. That’s when it always hits him. “I love you, Time,” he says catching his breath. It was these moments, I not only felt his eyes on me but I saw through them.
I saw so much.
Drum falls asleep first. His breathing allows me to calm. To prepare for the moment I close my own eyes. The very moment the darkness is real for me. Curled into his side with my hair covering his chest, his arms holding me safe because even in sleep he worries, I think of my life. It comes to me in brilliant flashes. All because one man walked into a white room and saw color for the first time. All because Drum saw those colors in me. So every night I do this. Sift through the sights and sounds that make up my life to date.
I begin with an empty canvas, choosing my brush and colors carefully. I lose myself to it, time slows for me like this. It will never stand completely still but I no longer needed it to. Using my fingers to tell a story, I watch my life unfold vividly. I lose all touch with seconds, minutes, hours. When the final stroke is complete I set my brush down and stare. I hang the canvas with the others that came before it. Stored safely in my memory forever. Tomorrow, morning would come and I would wake to him. He would touch my cheek, I would open my eyes and like each day before, I would see his face.
Without fail, I woke to the vision of Drum just as he was the night before my sight left me forever. As if his image was frozen just for me, that’s what I see each morning. The first time it happened was the moment I knew God was real.
Drum has never rushed me. He lets me take my time, as if we had endless amounts of it. As if we had the power to manipulate it. I suppose in those moments we did.
Kissing my husband’s cheek, I let sleep take me.
I was going to travel the world and with my family, I did.
I was going to take in all of its wonders and these never ceased.
I would capture it through my lens which are now my fingers, my new eyes.
I would tell my story with paints on a canvas and I have a gallery as proof.
I would share my adventures with my children knowing one day they would have their own and Carolyn was as adventurous as they came.
The world was mine for the taking, until it disappeared, or so I thought.
The day the world lost color, was a hard one.
But as it turns out, I had to lose something.
I lost my sight but gained so much more.
Like Drum said, I wasn’t one color, I was all of them.
I no longer mourn my vision because I see it all through him.
I see.
Thank you to Brenda Wright and Melissa Gill for helping me get from point A to published. To my Voxer babes and my besties, y’alls my girls. To my entire family, I love you hard core. To every blogger, fan, and critic, just thanks for taking a chance on me. A big shout to Connie Thompson and Pamela Morgan for pimping an up and coming author because they believed in my work. To Detroit Rock City, I don’t even have to say it. You already know!
K.S. Adkins is a full time everything. When I'm not wifing, mothering or being bossy, I'm reading, writing or shooting. A full time realtor, lifelong Michigander and all around lover of all things guns and Detroit, I believe in freedom of foul language, gratuitous nudity, tattoos and mosh pits. I've recently taken up drinking wine and feel like I'm really making progress with it. I think my chances at finding a place within the Romance genre is 50/50, but I suck at numbers so what do I know?
My stories are written with heavy dialogue and are Detroit-based. If you don't like heavy dialogue or Detroit, don't read my stories. My characters are typically dark and fairly fucked up so if you want sappy characters without issues, don't read my stories.
I love violence, guns, blood, naughty words, awkward sex, rap, metal, and untraditional people. Every fight scene was tried and tested by me. I have the bruises to prove it too.
I write romance, but my characters are not always romantic. Each is a work in progress. My stories are about strong women and the alphas who try to tame them, but never do.
At the end of the day, you may not like my stories, you may also think I suck as an author and that's okay, but I have to tell you, I had the best fucking time writing them and for me, that's what it's all about.
I love new likes so hit me up on Facebook @ K.S. Adkins, Twitter @hoodwrites or Instagram @hoodwrites and let me know if you loved it or hated it. ♥
