Mary-Elizabeth Briscoe - The First Signs of April

Praise for The First Signs of April

Reading The First Signs of April is like sitting in front of a fire with an old friend: Briscoe starts telling her story and all of a sudden the sun is up and you feel as if you havent blinked once. This book will become that friend who stays with you for life.

MELANIE BRAVERMAN,
author of East Justice and Red

The First Signs of April is an inspiring story of about life, death, and how connected we all remainbut only if were open to listening to the wisdom waiting for us. Mary-Elizabeth Briscoe shows us the power of friendship, and the ways we can heal by embracing all life has to offer.

LINDA JOY MYERS, president National Association of Memoir Writers, and author of Song of the Plains:
A Memoir of Family, Secrets, and Silence

By living and writing her truth, Briscoe shares her healing journey of loss and love. A compelling read that grabs your attention and will not let you leave.

PRISCILLA A. HUTCHINS,
Licensed Psychologist-Doctorate, retired

Copyright 2017 Mary-Elizabeth Briscoe

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2017

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-63152-298-7 pbk
ISBN: 978-1-63152-299-4 ebk
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017939193

Cover design Julie Metz, Ltd./metzdesign.com
Interior design and typeset by Katherine Lloyd/theDESKonline.com

For information, address:
She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

NAMES AND IDENTIFYING CHARACTERISTICS HAVE BEEN APPROVED BY SAID INDIVIDUALS, OR CHANGED TO PROTECT THE PRIVACY OF CERTAIN INDIVIDUALS.

For Aunt Pat and Mugsey,
Infinite Love.

For anyone who finds healing in our story

We do not heal the past by dwelling there; we heal the past by living fully in the present
Marianne Williamson

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Steam dampens my nose and cheeks like a morning facial as hints of bitter nuttiness remind me that I like the smell almost better than the taste of coffee. Wrapping my hands around the hot mug, sleepiness begs for me to crawl back to bed and enjoy the indulgence of taking a day off from seeing clients in the middle of the week. Therapists need self-care too. Tempted to succumb, I head for my bedroom just as the windows start to rattle and the floor begins to shake beneath me. Coffee slops to the rim of my mug but doesnt spill over. A passing logging truck wakes Fergus, my Petite Basset Griffon Venden and he charges toward me, barking his demands for a morning walk.

After a couple of quick sips of coffee, were out the door, where bright sunshine and blue skies dotted with fluffy white clouds greet us. The long grass surrounding the house is overdue for a final cut. Scraggly weeds, sunflowers drooping to the ground, and decaying tomatoes clinging to yellow and brown stalks tell of the weeks of my choosing play over responsibility. Ive been ignoring the usual preparations necessary for surviving the long, harsh Vermont winter. While my neighbors stack wood, store away outdoor furniture, and put their gardens to bed, Im acting as though winter will never arrive. Instead I ride my motorcycle every chance I get, refusing to let go of the feeling of total freedom that comes the minute I throw my leg over the seat. The warmth of the last couple of weeks certainly helps my denial, and as I breathe in the warm, early autumn air, I know today will be no different.

Sorry, Fergus, looks like another day of riding my motorcycle. Youre just gonna have to settle for a quick walk around the yard. He stubbornly stops dead in his tracks, unwilling to go in the direction of the house, and I crouch down and coax him along. Hes obviously getting tired of walks cut short in favor of my riding.

I grab the morning newspaper off the front porch step and drop it onto the counter. The mornings headlines stare up at me from under a pink border: Day 1. Seeking Justice for Melissa Jenkins. More Than Two Years After Melissa Jenkins Disappearance, Accused Murderer Allen Prue Will Finally Answer For The Crime.

Photographs splashed across the front page remind me of the vigil, two years earlier, when a group of towns people had huddled in an embrace attempting to comfort one another and make sense of the tragic death of their beloved teacher. I sip my coffee and stare at a photograph of her young orphaned son printed beside a smiling portrait of Melissa, bordered in pink.

Sighing, I flip the newspaper facedown on the counter. Melissas death had occurred thirty years after my most traumatic loss, almost to the day. My cell phone rings but I let the call go to voicemail. Its the nurse from St. Johnsbury Academy, no doubt calling me to arrange for more grief counseling for the students. Ah shit, here we go, Fergus. I gotta get outa here.

Marching out of the kitchen, I see a shadow moving across the picture window. This isnt the first time Ive seen it. There have been other strange occurrences lately, like the smell of cigarettes lingering in a room even though Im no longer a smoker. Maybe buying a house next to a cemetery wasnt such a good idea after all. After heading to my room to add a few layers of clothing for riding warmth, I grab my helmet, then shut and lock the front door behind me.

With my helmet secure, gloves snuggly on my hands, I throw my right leg over my bike and sit still for a moment, acknowledging how that simple movement always makes me feel cool. I squeeze the clutch, turn the key, push the start button, and gently roll the throttle back, allowing the engine to carry me forward as I turn onto the road.

I quickly accelerate to top speed, readying myself for the thrill of the ten curvy miles to St. Johnsbury, where Id gas up before heading out to cruise along the back mountain roads for the day, knowing that the isolation would not allow for cell phone reception. Leaning into the first sharp curve my stomach lurches with fear.

Hitting the straight stretch of road just before town, I begin to follow a train that is slowly chugging along the tracks to my right. I nod at the conductor who gives me a wave, and for a minute, we ride in sync before the train picks up speed and pulls away.

Stopping at the closest gas station, I fill up my tank. Part of me wants to blast through town before hitting the back roads, but I stop on the sidewalk in front of St. Johnsbury Academy where, two years earlier, voices had been raised, united in their pain as they sang Amazing Grace. My thumb instinctively hits the kill switch, silencing the engine, as my left foot pushes the kickstand down. A granite memorial stone engraved with the words Love Wins stares up at me. I let its message wash over me. Loves healing power does win, if we can allow it, I remind myself. Maybe now it will finally be over.