Miss Sullivan

It wasn't that she was dreading the long weekend away; her girlfriends knew she needed it, and she knew it too, but it was just coming at such a bad time. Her design proposal deadline had just moved up two whole weeks; three days earlier, her nanny decided she "needed to find herself" - in Greece - I mean, don't we all sister-biscuit; and her husband tore some sort of muscle, tendon, meniscus-something during a Sunday pickup basketball game at the neighborhood park, and the doctor advised surgery right away.

But there she was, driving up the coast, with a wheeler bag tossed into the trunk, packed with an oddity of clothes. Her scuffed leather tote sat dutifully on the front seat with two laptops - personal and work, one iPad, three pairs of readers all of varying strengths, one work cellphone with a Slack app that most likely had 217 unread messages, and at the last minute she tossed in her dead-battery Kindle with the charging cord, with the accompanying mutter, 'Who am kidding about having time to read.'

With the map on the screen letting her know there was an hour left to her destination, she played Spotify roulette and tapped her finger on a random playlist. Van Morrison started to serenade her through the speakers, and she felt her shoulders soften ever so slightly. She figured she might as well enjoy this precious stretch of quiet time while she had it. With a press of a button, the sunroof opened. Her clenched fists eased their grip on the steering wheel, and her right arm rested on the center console - the thin gold bangles sliding down and stacking at the small of her wrist while her left hand did the auto-pilot maneuvering.

Time began to move slower as she drove, and a memory she had not thought of in years popped into her head out of nowhere. She was in 11th grade English class, and her teacher, Miss Sullivan, asked her to return during lunch break; Miss Sullivan had an idea she wanted to share. While sitting in a student chair pulled up to the teacher's wooden desk, the conversation started with, "Carrie, you have an exceptional way with storytelling. Have you ever thought of pursuing writing as a career?"

Carrie remembers sitting there feeling surprised by her suggestion. "You gave me a C+ on my last assignment. I hardly think that means I should be a writer." Carrie replied matter-of-factly.

"I gave you a C+ because I could tell you wrote it hurriedly the night before, and you didn't even bother to fix your spelling errors - but my sweet girl, you have spark and fire and so much potential in your imagination. You have a gift." She paused and continued, "I want you to ask yourself when you stay up late with these friends of yours, are they helping you become the best you? What would your life look like as a successful writer?"

Carrie remembers sitting there, letting that thought sink deep into her core. She nodded - sincerely hearing Miss Sullivan, yet she went back outside to eat her sandwich in the quad with her friends, and somehow that meaningful moment got lost in the fray. Perhaps it got lost in her move to the college dorms, or when she said "I do" on that hot August afternoon, or perhaps it was lost while changing countless diapers at 3am.

Regardless, here it was again - with her in the car like a long-lost friend.

She reached for her phone and hit the mic button for a new voice memo. Clipped thoughts only she could decipher were spoken out loud. "This weekend. Miss Sullivan. Write again." She dropped her phone back into the cup-holder and got lost in more thoughts for the remaining 38 miles.

The map chimed her out of her daze, signaling for her to turn left and then right. As she slowly made her way down the gravel lane, she came to peace, knowing that this weekend was actually happening at the most perfect time.

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Little escapes to brighten your heart - all stories are fictional and inspired by quiet moments I capture on the coast of Maine.

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