Page 1 of In a Word, Yes

One

ennui(n.): a feeling of dissatisfaction

Lucy

At 8:12 in the morning, near the corner of Third and Elm, I happen upon an act of audacity that will never make the front page ofThe Mountain Messengerno matter how much it rattles me. From a hairline fissure in the sidewalk, a single petunia rises strong. It cranes its violet-and-yellow face to the sky, as if to say “Why not?”

Why not indeed.

Beyond the graveyard, clusters of the same blossoms edge the back steps of the old stone Presbyterian church. Yet somehow this little lady escaped the fold.

I tap pause on my earbuds. Gripping the cemetery’s wrought-iron fence, I crouch close and whisper, “Nicely done.”

Maybe as a delicate seed, she was carried here on a stiff breeze or the bottom of some child’s shoe. Sure, you could call the fact that she made it to safety, somehow finding her way into this speck of dirt, a thing of wonder.

But that’s not what has me transfixed.

I narrow my gaze at the brazen thing.And then you dared to bloom.

If a flower could talk, this one appears to be saying “You ought to try it sometime, Lucy.”

Rude.I mean, this morning’s decision to walk rather than drive the six blocks to work counts as a win, right?Somethinghad to be done for this vexing unease.

Who knew that a person’s life could fit like a well-worn sweater one day and turn itchy the next? I need to change things up, is all.

Never mind that I can already see the day’s events playing out ahead of me, same as last Monday, and the Monday before, and, well yeah, the two hundred preceding Mondays...

Once I’m settled at my station in the front lobby of the newspaper office, I’ll fall into the mindless rhythm of answering phone calls and formatting classifieds. No doubt by now old Samuel PeabodyIII’s dimly lit corner office is shut up as tight as a tomb. Our grizzly bear of an editor in chief prefers to be left alone while scratching out his weekly opinion piece. From three streets away, I can practically smell the acrid aroma of dark roast coffee sludge (Sam always brews the first pot), muted by the sweetness of whatever home-baked delicacy Dot brought to share.

Dot and I will swap Wordle scores. (I really tripped on today’s word. What was it? Oh yeah,moxie.)

Sheesh. This is getting personal.

At this precise moment, Mighty Meg is probably out running down some last-minute story. Monday mornings mean we’re all on deadline. Yet inevitably again today, some local will call or pop by in a frenzy, ad in hand, well past deadline.

Inevitably I’ll accept it.

From a career perspective, I suppose I’ve plateaued at theMessenger. But hear me out. I cherish being part of something so essential to our town. Something bigger than me. Furthermore, I don’tnotenjoy my job. I know the rhythm of its seas. My days holdfew surprises—a feature I cherish. Besides, what more can a girl expect after abandoning her journalism degree midsemester for a man whose secrets would scar her heart?

So go ahead. Mock me, little petunia. You’re not wrong.

I tip my Hydro Flask and give her a good drenching. She’ll need it today. Early fall in central Oregon loves to deal out a few random days of withering temperatures before the cozy season arrives to stay, and today looks to be a scorcher. For the moment, though, the sun’s rays are friendly, cresting the far tree line where national forest gives way to city limits.

Lord knows I appreciate my little speck of soil here, where Chase and I put down roots. It’s lovely. Peaceful. Safe. If God has more for me, he’s going to have to spritz me with Miracle-Gro Bloom Booster.

I eye the sky.No, that isn’t a request.I haven’t the audacity.

But then I smile inside.AudacitywasMerriam-Webster’s word of the day, and already I’ve used it twice. So, there’s that!

Turning left onto Birch, I restart my audiobook. This one’s a cozy mystery that requires I suspend my disbelief to the utmost. Come to think of it, when did I become a thirty-one-year-old who listens to stories about croissant heists in French bakeries and tabby cats that solve murders? Sure, my tastes are broader than that, but still.

I make a very poor millennial.

Over at the redbrick school administration building, a pair of high-spirited fawns bounce across the lawn. Which is why I notice the marquee out front. Someone updated the large blocky letters to announceParent-Teacher Confrences Oct. 21. Instantly the contents of my stomach curdle.

But why? I mean, beyond the egregious misspelling?

Sure, there was that fiasco last year with Chase’s second-grade teacher, an epic complication to my single-mom life. But so far, his return to school is providing the kind of snug daily routine kids like my Chase crave far more than the average eight-year-old, andMrs. De Los Santos hasn’t yet sent home a single dreaded yellow slip for behavioral issues.