Greetings from the Flipside by Rene Gutteridge

could read it. From a family called the Thompsons: “May God bless you in the midst of your turmoil.” He glanced at her. Well, this was turmoil all right. He supposed a blessing would be for her to wake up, but he guessed they didn’t make “wake-up-from-your-coma” cards.
    He filtered through the cards, a lot of handwritten notes like “hope you get better!” and “get well soon!” inscribed after some Bible Scripture or a simple poem about all the good that suffering can do when placed in God’s hands. A lot of pictures of doves.
    He opened the last one. It came in a slightly smaller envelope. When he pulled it out, he immediately recognized it. It came from his shop. It was a card he’d designed himself. He remembered taking the picture . . . it was of a creek at dusk. The water glowed a beautiful amber and reflected the fall leaves that shaded it. Small logs drifted in its water. A vine grew up one tree. A tiny butterfly floated just above a rock. He didn’t have to open it. He knew what it said inside:
    “The silence inside a perfect day
    Will help you find your way”
    He sat back and stared at it, then her. It was going to take more than a pretty picture to get her out of this mess. But whatever it took, he’d try to make every day he could, while she was in this awful mess, as perfect as it could be.
    And maybe he could do a little better than just silence.
    Greetings from My Life
    The train slows, then stops. I cannot believe it, but I am about to step right into Grand Central Station. It makes me smile because my friend Becca’s mother used to almost use it as a cuss word when we were kids.
    “What is this? Grand Central Station?!”
    But here I am, at my destination. The dream is alive. I quickly tuck my drawing pad and pencils into my bag and wait for the door to open.
    As it does, I’m hit with a strange odor, then a foggy, muggy kind of air, thick like syrup and odorous too. The light isn’t quite right, either. I was thinking everything would be awash in sort of an amber light . . . more natural light, maybe. I’m not sure. But either way, it is time for me to step off. And step off I will!
    When people fall, they don’t really make a splat sound, you know? I mean, why do we even say that? It’s more a thud . And a grunt. And then I hear my pencils rolling from my bag, one by one. I can’t see anything but shoes as people walk around me like I’m some kind of mud puddle.
    It was the strangest feeling that caused the fall, a sharp, shooting pain through my foot. I don’t know why nobody is helping me up. I manage my way to my knees. My heel throbs but it’s the least of my concerns. I locate my bag. It’s three feet away. I reach for it but can’t quite get to it. One foot after another, each adorned with some pretty impressive footwear, stomps on it.
    Like a slug, I crawl toward it, panting against the suffocating humidity that apparently hovers two feet off the ground. I reach my bag. Scramble for my pencils. Dodge spiky heel after spiky heel.
    It feels like hours, but finally I manage to get to my feet after the train traffic has cleared and get my luggage. I blow air into my bangs. I’m sweaty. Shaken. But. I. Am. Here.
    As I walk out of the terminal, I make myself smile. What did I think? NYC was going to be a cakewalk? It’s tough here and I have to get my game on. I hold my head high and my bag close and I march on.
    Until I have to stop and look at a map.
    * * * *
    Thanks to craigslist, I have a good idea of where I want to live. At least judging by price and location. Thanks to Google Maps, I also have a good idea of where I don’t want to live. I’m three blocks away from gang territory, but supposedly it’s a safe neighborhood in Westside Manhattan.
    Except . . . the apartment doesn’t look so . . . Manhattan-ish. At least how I envisioned it. But again, I have to keep an open mind. I once read about a couple who lived in a 400-square-foot apartment in Manhattan.