Howell, Michigan
Congratulations, Kim!
Kim’s Bio:
Kim's first love wasn't writing; it was photography. Something about the way an entire story could be etched in time with a mere shutter's wink captured her heart. Although she dabbled with her camera through college (and still does), a few odd journalism jobs post college sparked an interest that lay dormant: the written word. Newspaper columns did not give Kim the creative outlet for which her heart yearned, however. Although her resume is full of writing and design experience, what you won't find in Kim's portfolio is what has been most important to her life and her career: her family. Most of Kim's writing is inspired by the short moments that create richness in life. As though her words were a camera, Kim aims to capture a snapshot with her stories: a brief glimpse at the tiny moments in life to which, she hopes, almost anyone can relate.
She is very active in her local writing community in Howell, MI, where she founded a group called PageJammers, and in South Lyon where she is a member of another writing group.
You can find out more about Kim by visiting her blog: http://www.kimhyt.blogspot.com
Facing Faith
Rain trickled down the pane as she flattened her nub of a nose against the glass and stared coldly into the damp day. She had been standing at the window for almost an hour, solemn and quiet, expressionless. A pink elephant, scuffed and worn but loved, dangled from her left hand. Its button-ended trunk held by only a few threads. She tucked the fingertips of her other hand into her mouth as she watched the world bustle beyond her front porch.
I felt like the elephant looked: ragged, held together by mere threads. Two nearly unbearable weeks had passed since Beverly’s death and life was already so different without her. I packed quickly, wrapping valuables in newspaper and labeling boxes “FRAGILE” with thick, black letters. Pins and needles surged through my feet as I stood for the first time in an hour. It was almost lunchtime.
“Faith?” my voice cracked the silence.
The young girl remained at the window and didn’t answer.
“It’s almost noon.” I said. “Aren’t you hungry?”
She tilted her head, muttered, “I’m never eating again.”
I sighed. Although Faith was not my daughter, I loved her as though she were, and it pained me to see her hurt.
“Oh, that’s silly,” I said. “Then who will I bake cookies for when we get settled into our new home?”
Faith turned away from the window and set her sad, weary gaze on me. I adored her soft curls, the way brown wisps accented her pale face. She said nothing, but her rosy lips drooped and quivered. The elephant fell quietly to the floor. Tears drenched her cheeks as she released loud sobs jumbled with indistinguishable words. I went to her. She fell into my arms and we sank to the hardwood floor, where we rocked together and wept.
When I was a child, my sister and I often bickered and our mother would tell us to make nice, that Beverly and I would be lifelong companions. As I clung to Beverly’s daughter, now my child, I cherished every breath Faith took, as if she somehow breathed life back into her mother, my sister. I was going to raise this little girl, blindsided by the death of my sister and by the new prospect of unplanned motherhood. How?
“Can we have macaroni and cheese?” Faith said through sniffles.
I gave her a squeeze, straightened a dainty curl with the tips of my fingers only to have it rebound, and couldn't help but smile. Her innocence, her warmth and sincerity. Ah, the lessons we had in store for one another. Could this child, I wondered, with so adequate a name, be my saving grace? My life again held purpose. I had Faith.
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