Clasping Hand

A Story by Frances LaSalle

It happened so quickly. But then, don't all miracles happen within the twinkling of an eye? At least, Marcia thought so. An she was certainly right about the twinkling. It was that sudden dance of stars in those deep, rich-brown eyes which caught at her heart. And which in some strange way danced right into that heart, only to spill over and flood all through Marcia's body in a miracle of delight.

After a quarter century of existing in a drab cocoon, Marcia had suddenly metamorphosed. Her eyes became bluer; her hair more golden; her lips redder. Though to be frank, we must admit this last change had been wrought through selecting a brighter lipstick! Looking into the small mirror over the kitchen sink, Marcia wondered why she had not thought of this before.

But the truth is, she had been in a rut. Like the town where she had always lived. Marksville had grown from 247 to 253 during the last twenty-five years. A few uninteresting people had died; a few more, born; some had moved away while a number had moved in. Nice people; but to Marcia, uninteresting. Especially, it seemed to her, were the "young eligible men" uninteresting. She would marvel as she watched the sèveral girls her age in town roll desiring eyes after the boys. And she would marvel again as those eyes would wi den with a glow when the boys responded. Now, those girls had either married or had moved on to the city. Maroia would have loved to move on to the city, but her father was old, and had only Marcia to care for him.

Oh well.

She could always read. An aunt in Boston who understood loneliness subscribed to magazines for her, and sent her books. Too, she had Julie. Julie was her eleven-year-old half-cooker, half-collie. But she would lose Julie some day. And then.

It wasn't that Marcia had never glimpsed happiness; for she had. Twice. But they were glimpses from the outside looking in.