At half past 10 on a gloomy Saturday morning I find myself standing on the edge of a cliff. I look down. Only 60 seconds till I jump off, heading towards the cruel, meandering river below.

I look around. A few strange faces. Busy capturing moments of their beautiful life. Beautiful? I smirk. Then why am I here today? Ready to let go. Why do I not see any friendly face in these last few moments?

Why?

40 seconds.

Face your fear – they said. Let go of your shackles – they said. Embrace your fear, and enjoy true essence of life. Live life at it’s fullest. It would be excruciating – they never said. It would make your bones quiver, so much so that you will want to give up – they missed.

And so, here I am. On the cliff.

30 seconds. I panic.

What if this moment is the last before I jump? Before I embrace what comes next?

I see a few smiling faces. Happy. Excited. Maybe they wave?

20 seconds. I shiver.

Flashes of faces. Friends. Family. A few memories. Arguing. Laughing. Without a hint of what comes next.

10 seconds.

So this is it! Maybe it is better like this. To find myself enraptured by the wind, scarcely able to breathe, captured in an instant from hope to despair, blood thumping through your veins so fast that you feel it, is worth the last few moments of sanity.

5 seconds.

4.

3.

2.

1.

I jump.

A rush of wind gushing through. My heart beating with suffocating pace. The river seems close. Much close.

Splashes of water on my face. A lump in my throat.

I close my eyes. The end is near.

A sudden jolt.

I stop.

The rope works!

I let out a shout. A shout of joy. Of exuberance. Of conquering fear. The fear of heights. The fear of falling down. The fear of letting go.

This is worth the asphyxiating fear. Because what comes next is pure freedom. Freedom from my fear. Freedom from my own shackles. Freedom to live my life. Live, and not just breathe.

This gives hope. Hope, that even at the lowest point, all is not over. Hope, that the journey downhill will stop.

And now, I am going back up.
​

It was a sunny, normal day in Lexington, Kentucky. Little kids from down the street were riding their trikes, teens were hanging out at the park, our new next-door neighbors were arguing about what shade of beige to paint their house, and I Mary Sanentini was listening to my mom telling me to go have fun and play outside. I am resentful but I comply. Outside it is scalding hot, so hot that I feel if I stay outside any longer my skin might melt off. I walk around the side of our big three-story rental house that we rented a few weeks after my dad disappeared. My mom couldn’t bear to look at all of the stuff and relive all of the memories, so we moved, and to be honest I couldn’t live with it either. When I reach the old dingy building where we keep all of dad’s old tools and my bikes I picked the rusted deadbolt lock and open the doors. When I walk inside I am suddenly hit with a powerful wave of memories. Dad smiling at me and my mom while using his 50-year-old Stanley drill that grandpa gave him when he was a kid. Dad and I working hard building the treehouse in the old backyard. I finally realize how much I miss him. Instantly I crumple to the floor and start sobbing. It must’ve been only a few minutes but it felt like hours until I feel cold strong arms grab me. I scream and then a wet cloth was pressed against my nose. A sedative. I thought. I tried to fight it but sure enough, I started getting entangled in a haze of blackness. The last thing I remember was hearing my mom scream my name and a gunshot before the sedative overcame me.

………………………..

I awoke horrified forgetting about the terrors that occurred however long ago. I was encompassed in darkness. The only light coming from a small candle in the corner of the room. It was damp and smelled like moss in the place and I couldn’t pinpoint what the ground felt like. I crawled over to the candle where I was shocked to find a body. At first, I thought it was dead but as I looked closer I noticed that it’s chest I realized that it was heaving steadily. Please don’t be a killer. I thought as I tried to shake it awake. The person swatted at my hand for a few seconds then arose and looked me up and down. I’d recognize that face anywhere, even under the scrawny physique, ratty hair, and the crazed look in his eye from exhaustion. Both of our jaws were practically on the floor as I whispered. “ Dad.”In reply, he whispered. “Mary.”
​

Sammy opened his eyes to discover he was encapsulated in some sort of cage or tomb. He could not tolerate being in such a small area. He also noticed a very strong sense coming from deep within himself to return home. Home! What was home like and where was it located? He had no idea. He could not recall any memory of home. In fact, he had no recollection of anything outside of this structure he found himself in. He didn’t even know how he got here.
He looked for a way out but saw no doorway or opening. He began hitting the sides of this enclosure, partly out of frustration but mainly as an attempt to escape. It was exhausting work. At times he wanted to give up but that internal urge to return home, wherever that was, would not let him.
When he started this arduous task, the structure would just rock back and forth. Suddenly, he noticed a small crack developing, and then another and another. The cracks began to increase in size, as did his hope for escape.
The larger the cracks became, the harder he would strike them. Finally, a large section broke off and fell away.
Sammy immediately protruded his head out and his lungs were engulfed with an overwhelming rush of fresh air.
This gave him a surge of energy, allowing him to wiggle his entire body through the opening.
He was finally free! But where was he? He found himself on cool, damp sand. He knew this wasn’t home as his internal urging was pulling him in the direction of the only sound he could hear, that of the pounding surf of the ocean.
He was totally exhausted but knew he had to continue moving forward. His escape drained so much energy from him that he was reduced to a crawl.
He expended his last ounce of energy as he laid down where the salty water of the ocean lapped up on the pristine sand of the beach.
Just when he thought it was all over, the tide came in surrounding him, and gently lifted him up and carried him to deeper water.
Home at last! Home sweet home. Sammy frolicked about as he was now the happiest sea turtle in the entire Pacific Ocean.
​

"This is my dominion," uttered the sot as he parked his carcass in front of the TV.  Another night of the same old routine:  news, sports, and snoring during his nap before going to bed.

Sara had grown weary of Andrew's ways.  As time went on, her Beloved became her Not-So-Beloved.  Her own odd logic justified her marriage: Drew earned a decent living, he just wasn't prosperous; he wasn't vulgar,  just uncouth; and he certainly wasn't evil, only extremely inconsiderate.

Neither was Andrew a stranger to the banality of their marriage. Sara-So-Predictable, Sara Surprise-less, Sara Slow-to-Come, and on and on.  It was easier to ignore the marital staleness than to upset the apple cart.


Almost daily, thoughts of freedom frolicked through Sara's mind as she questioned whether she had the skill and the will to recapture her life for herself.  And, then, out of nowhere the magic formula manifested itself.


Extra Strength Boiler Makers, served throughout the sixth game of the Series, would be the easiest way.  Everyone knew "Drew
loved two too many".  Slyly smiling, Sara felt confident that by this time next week she'll be known as the Weeping Widow.

As the sixth game progressed, the drinks became stronger.  The preparation of yet another drink was interrupted....

"Sara, these drinks are way too strong.  Are you trying to ki....". 
The look on Sara's face was a dead give away.  As the shocking realization set in, Andrew barely had enough strength to support himself.


***

A small table displayed the ashes blanketed by rose petals.  The sparsely attended memorial service prompted the Preacher to shorten his eulogy.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways.  Sadly, Andrew's stumble resulting in Sara's tumble, caused them both to suffer lethal head injuries.  Only God knows why He chose these bizarre events to hasten this couple to His bosom where they can share their companionship and love for each other in eternity.  Let us pray..."
​

“Yes, Mr. Jenkins, your IRA is doing quite well. As I told you before, I take your money personally. I only invest in the sorts of things I, myself, am involved in.” Pete Smithers shifts his phone from one ear to the other as he hands the boarding agent his ticket.

“Enjoy the Caymans,” the agent says with a smile, already looking to the next in line.

“No, Mr. Jenkins,” Pete continues, as he walks down the jet way. “It’s common for the SEC and other regulatory agencies to audit financial firms, even mine. It’s what keeps us honest. I wouldn’t waste any time worrying about that story on CNN.” Pete nods to the stewardess as he steps onto the plane, then turns down the aisle. With his focus on the first class seat numbers, he catches his wheelie carry-on against the divider. “Shoot!”

“No, no, that wasn’t directed at you, Mr. Jenkins. I’m about to step into a real important meeting - another great opportunity for your money – so I have to go. I promise I’ll call you later to—“

Pete stops, as two men in dark suits stand in his way. The closest, a tall young man, a serious look upon his face, holds a cell phone to his ear with one hand, and a badge emblazoned with the FBI logo and the agent’s name in the other.

“You promise you’ll call me later, Mr. Smithers?” Special Agent Jenkins says into the phone.
​

Uncle Jack was a brash but twinkly-eyed Geordie with a loud voice and massive joie-de-vivre. He had the same name as my father, who had always seemed larger than life to me. But my uncle easily eclipsed him. When he and my mother’s elder sister visited, our home lit up like the end of the pier. They brought with them stories and chat that tumbled around our house. Laughter, so wild and abandoned, that the adults were often verging on tears.

On one of their visits we went to the coast, I can’t remember where now. Maybe Polperro or Looe - it was so long ago – more than half a century. I remember the whole family sitting in one of the beachside cafes, all bright melamine tables and orange lustre ware. Uncle Jack’s largesse was renowned, and he decided that he was treating his family and ours – all ten of us - to a knickerbocker glory.

Knickerbocker glory. A name resonant of extravagant lusciousness. And a hint of naughtiness.

Mum had to find a cushion for me to sit on so that I could reach the top of the tall glass with my long elegant spoon. Gradually I worked my way down through the traffic light layers of neon-hued jelly, custard, ice cream and perfectly cubed fruit. At the side of the saucer sat a jewel-like glace cherry, an unfeasible shade of red, my most favourite part of the whole concoction being saved until last. I still remember the price of that delectable dessert. Half a crown. Five weeks’ worth of pocket money, now just twelve and a half pence. That glorious tower of deliciousness summed up my Aunt and Uncle and their visits.

Later, ironically thirteen years later, there was a more sombre visit. Unknown to me, Aunty Irene was dying of lung cancer, her job and the free cigarettes at the Benson and Hedges’ factory reaping its hideous revenge. I can see her now, sitting on our sofa, slowly eating a bowl of my mother’s home-made soup, my mum next to her in her District Nurse uniform, heads bowed, talking in dulcet tones. Cancer wasn’t discussed openly back then in the seventies. Maybe it was too painful for my mum to explain to me. I had no idea. My aunt rocking in pain was lost on me, reduced as I was to an all-encompassing misery by an erstwhile boyfriend. I had no thought, no space for anyone else. I rowed constantly with my parents throughout that summer, oblivious to my aunt’s illness, my mother’s sadness.
​
Later that autumn, back at college, my mother called to tell me her sister had died. Suddenly I understood what had been washing around me all summer. Only then did I realise how selfish I had been. How unfeeling. But those knickerbocker glories stand like beacons to my vibrant aunt, to happier days, and what appeared to be simpler times when the sun shone forever.

“I’m in a fowl mood,” Bryan said as he returned to the table in the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet with his plate filled with an assortment of chicken prepared in a variety of ways ranging from fried wings to Chinese chicken and broccoli.

Linda laughed as she counted the variety. “I didn’t know you were so hungry,” she quipped.

“Round one. I’ve already plotted my next tour.”

“Are you trying to get your money’s worth or simply planning on not eating for the next month?”

Bryan gave her a look and continued eating without comment, but he watched as Linda finished her first plate and retrieved a second, piled high with an assortment of Chinese delicacies.

Bryan had gotten his second plate as he’d said, finished eating and continued to watch Linda as she got a third plate-full.

“That’s enough for me,” Bryan stated and poured a cup of tea for each of them.

“Not me,” Linda announced. “Aren’t you having dessert?”

“Are you trying to get your money’s worth or simply planning on not eating for the next month?”

“There’s always room for dessert.” Linda laughed as she headed for the dessert table.

Bryan laughed and poured himself another cup of tea.
​

The first time I noticed Joyce was in fourth grade. My class was playing her class in kickball. Before the game, I walked across the field and told her I would like to walk her home after the game.
I said, “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
In high school she enjoyed going to dances. Me, not so much. One evening I walked over to her side of the gym floor where she was sitting with a herd of girls, and I told her I don’t dance but would really like to drive her home afterwards.
I said, “ I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
After we got married she liked to shop. Me, not so much. I would let her off on one side of the shopping mall.
I then said, “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
Now, after a great life, I find myself in a hospital bed with all kinds of tubes attached to me. It will turn out to be the last day of my life.
I gently place her hand in mine. I inhale my last breath. I begin to exhale when I say my last words, “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”
​

The old woman cast the runes and frowned. “She mustn’t go on the voyage.”

My grandfather nodded and helped her up from the floor. “Thank you for the advice, Sigrid. We will heed it.”

Grandfather saw her to the door. Sigrid paused and looked Grandfather in the eyes. “Don’t let that child go on that voyage.”

He nodded and handed her money.

Grandfather was the patriarch of our family and I never knew him not to be in charge. My father always stood down. It was the way of the old country.

“Dad, we’re in England. I was born here. I’m not a child. I’m 23 years old. And do we really have to use ancient Norse magic?”

Grandfather sat at the table and looked at me. “Hush, child. Runes are very powerful. Sigrid is the most widely respected rune caster in all of England. We are fortunate to have her live close.”

“But the ship sails in under one month,” I pleaded.

Father stood up. “The answer is no, Ingrid. You will not be on that ship. There will be no more discussion on the matter.”

I stared in disbelief. This was the first time father weighed in on a matter where Grandfather had made a decision. The case was closed.

On April 10th, 1912, the Titanic set sail from Southampton, England, without Ingrid on board.
​