Authors: J. A. Jance
After the Fire (7 page)
I still treasure the key ring, but when I look at it now, I no longer see what is missing.
My brother made the key ring years ago,
The female symbol with a welded fist
Clenched in the defiant gesture of that time.
The fist broke later, I don't know when,
And for years it stayed that way,
Half broken like some long-forgotten grudge.
Eventually it disappearedânot the ring, the fist,
And when I noticed it was gone,
I laughed, because I, too, had changed.
I wrote this poem in June 1984, not knowing that in June 1985 my life would take a sudden turn for the better when I would meet the man who would become my second husband six months to the day from the day we met. I think the long period of quiet, not only after my divorce but also after my former husband's death, put me in better emotional shape for what was to come.
For those who are unfamiliar with the Arizona desert, it is helpful to know that the heat of summer usually comes in early June. By July the desert is parched and the trees and plants seem dead or dying. Then the rains come, and life returns. Perhaps people back east or in the Midwestâpeople who live with snow and real winter weatherâhave the same kind of reaction to spring, but for desert rats, life begins anew when thunderclouds come racing up from the south, bringing with them life-sustaining rain.
The part of me that's woman has removed
To some far distant place
And there awaits a time when I can once more
Dare the risk and hurt of love.
It's quiet here and calm, the stillness of a stagnant pond
Before the summer rains bring surging life.
It's June. The storms will come in mid-July.
By then I will have waited long enough.
I have little patience with people who consider themselves experts in how long the grief process should last. People who haven't lived through that soul-numbing pain, and even some who have, often act as though there is a certain time by which a grief-stricken person should simply shape up and quit “wallowing” in it. They don't have the time or patience to listen when someone needs to talk and ruminate about what happened. Interestingly enough, these are often the very same people who feel free to wag fingers and point out that someone certainly “got over it in a hurry.” They have no concept that many survivors, having battled some slow killer like cancer or Alzheimer's, have done their grieving well in advanceâlong before death finally made its final curtain-lowering entrance.
However long it takes, or however short, there comes a day when the survivor opens his or her eyes and realizes that it is morning at last. The sun has come up, and life really does go on. When that happensâwhen the gray gloom finally brightens a little and one catches that first hint of blue skyâit seems like an incredible miracle, and it isâthe same kind of miracle that makes spring follow winter and sunrise follow night.
Love has come full circle, and I know
That I am free to live again at last,
Without my every waking breath and moment
Haunted by some image from the past.
With my heart closed and clutching our transgressions,
Old hates and hurts could never fall away.
But now the door is slowly creaking open.
At peace, in joy, I rise to greet the day.
This final poem is actually out of sequence, but benedictions are traditionally last, and this one is last for that reason. It was written in the early 1980s, when the promise it expresses seemed an impossible dream. Considering what was going on in my life at that time, it's not surprising that I drew on my past to write it.
The year I was a sophomore at the University of Arizona, I came down with a urinary tract infection that was severe enough to send me to the infirmary. Early the next morning, shortly after I awakened, my then boyfriend appeared, carrying in his hand a single rose that he had purloined from someone's garden on his way to see me. It was a dusty pink color with a few sparkling dewdrops still lingering on the petals. That rose is something I've never forgotten. In fact if I close my eyes right now I can see the tender petals and the dewdrops still gleaming like diamonds in the early morning sunlight.
I gave the Lord my greatest grief,
My burden, and my care.
He turned it over like a leaf,
And soon there blossomed there,
A flower of faith, a bloom of grace,
With petals soft and fair.
The dewdrop sparkling in the sun
Was once, I'm sure, a tear.
My life was storm-tossed and confused,
I couldn't find my way.
I asked the Lord to see me through
And guide me day by day.
He took my hand and calmed the sea,
Waves died at His command.
Then o'er the calm He carried me
Until we reached dry land.
And as the storm clouds rolled away,
Their edges silver lined,
I watched a rainbow bridge the sky
And knew God's grand design.
He changes weakness into strength,
Makes courage from despair.
Our stumbling feet turn into wings,
When we come to Him in prayer.
The life I live now often seems like a miracle. More than three decades after starting my long-delayed writing career, I still love writing. Almost twenty-eight years after marrying for the second time, my husband and I both cannot believe our good fortune in falling in love and marrying without wasting any precious time in the process. We have lived every day to the fullest, probably due in large measure to our mutual history. We came into this relationship with our hearts broken and with our dreams shattered. We both knew that life is not forever and that we have to make the most of whatever time we have.
We have homes in two places that we both love, Tucson and Seattle. In Seattle people who hear me being interviewed on the radio or television recognize me by my laughterâthe same laughter that was totally absent from my earlier life in Phoenix. I went to Seattle in July 1981 as a single parent of two children. In 1985, after marrying again, I added a husband and three more children. Through the years we have been blessed with six grandchildren and a number of very spoiled dogs.
There are times when I feel a whole lot like a modern-day Cinderella, but the poems in this book, the ones I took with me to that widowed retreat back in 1985, were vitally important to this happy ending. If some of my readers are struggling with similarly tough issues, I hope they'll find hope and inspiration here.
I've come a very long way since 1980, when I wrote “The Collector” and thought that the best I could hope for in life was to collect trading stamps.
As I prepare this third edition of
After the Fire
for publication, it's early spring 2013. When my editor asked me to make some revisions, I was shocked to discover that the file containing the original version of this book was still on some long-ago PC rather than on my current MacBook Air. So, for the past two days, I've spent hours dictating both the poems and the accompanying essays, word by word, into my iPad. I'm hoping I've caught all those pesky auto-corrects, but I'm not sure. I have to say, Siri isn't much of a poet.
In the process I have been both surprised and gratified to learn that the poetry I wrote starting forty years ago still speaks to me, and I trust it will speak to others as well. The events portrayed in these poems may have happened in the distant past, but the benefits of those challenging experiences are present with me every day of my life. Living through tough times and learning the lessons they had to teach are what made me the person and the writer I am today.
I had a chemistry teacher who told me once, “All steps are necessary; no steps may be skipped.” That's as true of life as it is of chemistry, and
After the Fire
is a book full of steps not skipped.
J. A. JANCE
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of the J. P. Beaumont series, the Joanna Brady series, the Ali Reynolds series, and four interrelated thrillers about the Walker family. Born in South Dakota and brought up in Bisbee, Arizona, Jance lives with her husband in Seattle and Tucson.
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JOANNA BRADY MYSTERIES
J. P. BEAUMONT MYSTERIES
WALKER FAMILY MYSTERIES
ALI REYNOLDS MYSTERIES
Web of Evil
Hand of Evil
Cruel Intent
Trial by Fire
Fatal Error
Left for Dead
Deadly Stakes
Cover photograph © by ImagineGolf/iStock Photos
First published in 2004 by the University of Arizona Libraries. Poems originally published in 1984 by Lance Publications.
A
FTER THE FIRE.
Copyright © 2013, 2004 by J. A. Jance. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST WILLIAM MORROW EDITION PUBLISHED 2013
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ISBN 978-0-06-229397-8
EPub Edition September 2013 ISBN 9780062293985
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