It was Christmas eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh field. I sat slouched on a lumpy chair in the lobby waiting for someone whom no longer stood waiting for me. The chair at this point had become impossible to be in, it use to be new and plush. I arose from the chair and wandered down the corridor. I remembered how our hands melted together as we walked down this very same hall three Christmases ago. I stopped and glanced out the window to peer into the courtyard in the front of the tarmac. I still see you sitting there, waiting, why couldn't I drop theses memories that haunted me.
It was at this tarmac 3 years prior that my boyfriend and husband to be waited for me here. I was running late because of all the damn traffic. He decided he'd take a cab because it was Christmas after all and he wanted to see me, and I wanted nothing more than his embrace. It had been so long since id last been held by him. It turned out that it was an accident. A greyhound bus slid sideways. The taxi cab side swiped and thrown into the woods. There were no survivors.
Every Christmas since then 1 show up exactly at 5:00 wishing I hadn't been late.
I can see where Howe is coming from and i can see how that could influence writing. Although i believe sad and tragic storied stir more emotion in people so i believe sad stories sometimes can be better. But when storied are tragic then end up happy are also amazing. I believe she is right to a point, that sometimes our writing can be influenced by people and events, and sometimes its good to be able to write it down and exploit our frustrations.
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