Freedom's Flight

Freedom’s Flight

“Just keep moving," she thought as she shifted the grocery bag from the cart to the trunk of her sedan. "One more meeting, and I can call it a day and have a quick meal." She had eaten nothing and knew that she needed nourishment despite feeling little desire for food. After returning the cart and settling into the driver's seat, she finally succumbed, rested her head on the steering wheel, and sobbed. The memory of her mother’s early morning words washed over her in waves; the tears that she had held all day finally fell unchecked down her cheeks.

“Samantha, Dear. . . " Having been awakened by her mom's ringtone was not unusual. The use of her given name, however, had jolted her awake and alerted her as nothing else could have. In the moneyed world of the Chasen clan, her nickname was the one nod to normalcy that Sam's mom allowed. Hearing "Samantha" was a sure sign that trouble had touched the unflappable social maven who was her mother.

"What is it, Mom?" Sam had demanded. "Just tell me."

"Gran is gone," she had answered. With those words, Sam had been flung into a pit so deep and so dark that she was certain she would struggle to ever emerge. Mute for several moments, she hung her head and waited. For what, she knew not. News that it was not true? That it was some sick, cruel joke? No, she knew that her mother was telling the truth and that she never told a joke. It was beneath her "upper crust" upbringing."

Sam had listened to the details concerning Gran’s death. She had then mentally managed her schedule, knowing that she must get through this day so that the next several could be dedicated to celebrating the life of Gran, her favorite person in the mostly cold, impersonal world that was hers. Gran, who hadn't incessantly reminded her that "Chasens are above that..." Gran who had reminded her to hold fast to her dreams. Gran who had shared her favorite poem, “Dreams," by her favorite poet, Langston Hughes. They had recited it together countless times. However, Sam’s dreams had never come true, and her source of hope that they might, had just died.

Jerked back to reality by her mom’s terse, “Get it together, Sam,” she had done just that. Climbing from her warm covers, she had showered, gotten dressed, and gone to the office. After working woodenly through several torturous meetings at Chasen Enterprises, Inc., she had prepared for the final one of the day, an online meeting at home following her quick stop to grab a few groceries.

Suddenly realizing that little time remained before the meeting, Sam sat up, started her car, and headed home. Though she didn’t remember later how she had gotten there, she arrived home safely, stashed the groceries, and made the necessary makeup adjustments to appear in her Zoom call the calm, collected, chief executive officer whom her staff knew and respected.

Forty-five minutes later, the call concluded, she put together a salad that she barely touched and sat staring at her favorite picture of herself with Gran. She lovingly remembered the days spent with the one person in the world who encouraged her dreams of writing and of mentoring young writers. She recalled their whispered confidences as they’d shared ideas and their joy as they’d brought them to life on paper.

Gran had been a gifted writer, and her praise of Sam’s craft had been the catalyst for incredible growth of the girl’s gift. Her paternal grandmother had spent much time with Sam throughout her young life, and had constantly reminded her of her dreams, even as Sam had settled into her "adult responsibilities" as a Chasen in the Chasen family business. Gran had often reminded Sam that it was never too late to realize her dreams. But the obstacles were overwhelming, and she had ultimately bowed to the inevitable, joining her father in leading the financial planning business that was her inheritance.

Sam’s eyes returned to the picture in which Gran held a frayed copy of the poem that had driven them, the poem that had given Sam dreams of more than making money and living life among the elite, dreams of doing what she loved. In a whispered pledge, Sam quoted:

“Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow” (Langston Hughes).

She touched her own image in the photo. In it, she held the black notebook that they had shared. "Sammie," Gran had explained one day, "this is our little black book. In it, we will store memories. We’ll record in this book the stories we weave, the tales that we treasure" As Sam stared at the beloved picture, she resolved to drive to Gran's house first thing the next morning to retrieve the black book and the worn print of the poem. Though it would be difficult to enter Gran’s hallowed home without her presence, those treasures, and the memories, were all that she had left.

Gran was gone, and no one else understood Sam’s dreams. Rather, the people left to her actually accepted the broken-winged bird she had become. They themselves had crushed her spirit and had celebrated its demise.

Sam fell asleep at the kitchen table with her head on her outstretched arm, the photo still in her hand. She saw, in a dream, her parents admonishing Gran against allowing such foolish notions to stir Sam's passion for teaching writing. "She's a Chasen," they had scolded, "and, as such, she is created for more. She will one day run our company."

Sam awakened suddenly, thinking dejectedly, “Do I run it, or does it run me?” Though she had studied literature in her undergraduate program, the mandated MBA had followed. She was now stuck in a job that she hated. She had few friends and never dated. Her schedule demanded everything of her and left nothing for others. Her life stretched before her like a barren field. Her soul was frozen. Would she ever be warm again?

After cleaning up the remains of her meager meal, she sought warmth in her bed, but the cold, dark night wrapped its tentacles around her and would not let go. As the hours crept by, a soft snow blanketed the ground, accumulating another few inches on top of several that had fallen in previous days. It was a reminder of life as she knew it--beautiful on the surface but desolate beneath.

Hours later, weary from little rest, Sam met her parents in their mausoleum-like mansion and listened as they pontificated about their plans for the Emma Chasen funeral. It would be quite a spectacle. As her mother had informed her the previous day, they did not need nor want her input about the funeral service. Many important people would attend, and the details were equally important. Such details were not “her gift.”

Sam had, instead, been needed at the corporate office to "get everything in order" for the days when she would be absent, mourning for an "appropriate amount of time." Now, having completed all of those work requirements, she found herself wondering what would become of her. Without Gran, how would she continue to have faith that there was more to life than success in a world where they both had been brought up but which neither had loved? Who would love her?

As soon as she could politely do so, Sam fled and drove to the place where she had always run to find refuge from the Chasen “royalty.” Once inside the charming, cozy home, Sam made her way to Gran’s bedroom and opened the nightstand drawer where she knew she would find their shared treasures. Opening the black book, she was surprised to discover within it a letter, along with a check for $20,000. Without pause, she unfolded the note.

Sam smiled, looking at her precious grandmother’s swirly script. “Dear Sammie,” she read, “There is no way that I could possibly love you more. My greatest wish is your happiness. Naught else matters to me at this stage in my life. As you are reading this, I know that I have passed, but I will always be with you, helping you to dream. My hope is that you will use this money as a way to help young writers. As I have mentored you, go now and teach others.

Your parents will be upset should you choose to walk away from Chasen, but you deserve to be free. They will accept it in time as my parents accepted my choice to spurn the social scene to which they were drawn. As I did, I now implore you to escape, little bird, from the demands that have kept you caged. Go now, my dear girl, and let your dreams find flight. All my love, Gran”

As though reciting a pledge, Sam then picked up the poem and read aloud the cherished words. As she finished, her plan fell promptly into place. Having made her decision, she drove home, sat down at her desk, and wrote her own letter--her resignation from Chasen Enterprises, Inc.

Two days later, Sam endured the excruciating ordeal of Gran’s memorial service. Hundreds of people paid their respects. Some spoke in hushed tones. Others laughed over memories made with the inimitable Emma Chasen. Sam responded appropriately, but she did not smile for coldness and darkness, her new companions, had draped her in despair.

She caused a stir by refusing to ride with her family to the graveyard; however, she was adamant about needing time alone for her final farewell. As the interment service ended, Sam embraced her parents and handed her letter to her father. She struggled to hold back an explanation, a plea for his approval, but, in the end, she said nothing. She simply nodded and turned back to the casket.

When she was finally alone, she spoke to her beloved grandmother. “Help me dream again, Gran. I long for a life of freedom.” Startled by a sound, her gaze darted to a cardinal, its vivid plumage visible as it took flight from a branch just yards from the cemetery tent in which she stood. Sam remembered hearing that a cardinal represented a deceased person who was watching over loved ones. Though not normally superstitious, Sam believed that it was so. “Gran, you’re still with me. I’ll never stop loving you and, for you, I will live my dreams.” She touched the casket one last time, turned, and walked from the barren field into her future.

After many months, Sam stood before her first class as a credentialed teacher. Although her parents had been disappointed, in time, they had come to accept her choice though their relationship remained coldly unsatisfying. Dismissing the thought, as her students filed in and took their seats, she knew she had made the right decision. “Good morning. I’m Ms. Chasen,” she announced. “I am your creative writing teacher this semester.”

Sam traversed the aisles, bestowing upon each student a black book purchased with some of the money that Gran had given her. Not part of her salary. Not a portion of her trust fund. Rather, it was Gran’s gift that she would use to help develop her students’ gifts for years to come. Overwhelmed with gratitude, she paused and silently thanked Gran again as hope and warmth settled over her like a soft sweater.

Sam’s eyes were drawn to a dazzling display outside. A cardinal in flight. A single tear trickled down her cheek as she began, “We’ll use these books to record the stories that we weave, the tales that we treasure.” “I’ll show you the way. But first, let me share my favorite poem.” Sam's smile lit up the room as she began, “Hold fast to dreams. . . "