Free Once Upon Another Time by Rosary McQuestion Page B

lava
lamps, incense, and Patchouli candles.  Teaching me about purity of the
universe, my parents took me on long nature walks, and taught me how to make
soap, candles, and rose petal jam, while discussing cumulus clouds, mackerel
skies, and universal peace. 
    Mother had always
been ubiquitous with boundless energy.  She had fluttered happily through life
barefoot in frayed-edged bellbottoms with a dog-eared first edition of “This
Season’s People” cradled to her chest.  However, not even as a child was there
any indication of me having a free spirit.  With my Judith Martin persona,
wheeling one’s free spirit meant mastering my first well-crafted,
passive-aggressive letter to a boy who had jilted me. 
    I’ll admit that
stringing colorful beads for my closet doorway and painting my bedroom with big
rainbows and psychedelic designs that sometimes made me dizzy, was fun. 
Nevertheless, I had craved structure, neatness, and McDonald’s!  Instead, I
helped my parents scavenge landfills for automobile tires to make sandals,
dined on tofu casseroles, and had to explain to my friends why a life-sized
Jerry Garcia statue-slash-fountain stood in our front yard.
    However, Nicholas
adored his grandparents and loved spending time with them at their gift shop
helping them with little chores.  The shop, unlike my parents who hadn’t
evolved much over the years, boasted expensive gift items and paintings from
local artists.
    I shook my head as
my eyes traveled over the legal paperwork on my desk while thinking how
different I was from my parents.  Like my Cher-look-alike mother, my father had
always maintained his gentle seventies spirit.  He was a well-respected
businessman who subconsciously still bucked the establishment.  He never saw
the need to chop off his Willie Nelson-like hair or turn the volume down on Pink
Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” that he’d blare from his backyard speakers. 
    A sudden knock on
the office wall of glass startled me.  I looked to see Laura, decked out in her
pink Nuala sports top, matching Capri sweat pants, and Marc Jacobs yoga matt
rolled up under her arm march into my office.
    “Aubrey, you
haven’t even changed your clothes yet.  Come on, I don’t want to walk into
class late again.”
    “Sorry, you’re
going to have to go to yoga without me tonight.  I’ve got far too much work to
catch up on.”
    Her eyes gravitated
toward the stacks of file folders on my desk.  “Okay, but try not to stay too
late,” she said, as she turned to leave and smacked right into Mr. Davis, the superintendent/maintenance
man. 
    “Oh, I’m sorry Mr.
Davis.  I wasn’t watching where I was going.” 
    “Don’t worry about
it,” he said, in a voice that sounded identical to the smooth baritone of James
Earl Jones. 
    Other than my
father, Mr. Davis was the kindest man I’d ever known.  At sixty-seven years
old, with skin the color of dark rich coffee and gentle eyes, he always seemed
to have a warm glow around him. 
    We’d gotten to
know each other well during the five years he worked in the building.  His wife
had died in childbirth when he was just twenty-eight years old.  His baby died
in his arms six hours later, a little girl he named Coco Rose for the delicate
color of her skin and the sweet fragrance of her tiny body.  It was sad he
never remarried.  He was like a kindred spirit, the only person who could truly
relate to the pain I had felt when Matt died.
    Mr. Davis walked
toward my desk shaking his head disapprovingly.  “Working late again?” 
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Hmm,” he
muttered, as he pulled at his chin.  “Did your mama tell you I stopped by the
gift shop a couple of days ago?”
    “She did.  She said
you decided on those beautiful silver candlesticks with the Mother of Pearl
detailing.  That’ll make a great wedding gift for your niece.  She’ll love
them.”
    “I’m sure she
will.  By the way, saw Nicholas, too.  That boy’s all