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
Magic Carpet Ride
Like woven tapestry, black with shimmering dots, the night sky spread for an eternity above our heads. We sat quietly, together yet without touch, upon the quilt we had stretched over dew-kissed grass, and I knew this was an evening I would cherish forever. My daughter was turning four, but that was of no interest to her. If abstract concepts, such as age and beauty, were important to Lisa, she didn't let on. Lisa’s autistic.
She loved the moon. She loved it whether it was round, half, or just a slice in the sky. As if anticipating the arrival of a trusted friend, she would point and announce its presence. I think it comforted her to know it was always right where she expected it to be. When it was cloudy, she would ask, “Moon?” I would tell her it already went night-night, and she was okay with that.
I gave her the moon and the sparkly nighttime sky for her fourth birthday. I suppose it was really a gift I had given to myself. With hectic days, I rarely slowed down enough to watch and enjoy the beauty of my daughter. But when I did, I found her complexity bewildering. She seemed unaware of my presence, but I knew she wanted me there by her side. “Mama” was her first word. She used it for everything: milk, up, hungry, daddy and no.
As we sat alone in our yard, I listened to nature—crickets, an owl—and wondered if she heard them too. I moved closer, trying to encircle her with my arms. She whined and resisted, twisted her body away and arched her back. The familiarity of her rejection made it sting no less. I sang to her, lullabies in a whispered voice. She softened into me, allowed my caresses on her strawberry-scented head. We swayed side-to-side. My mind was whisked away, taken back to when she was an infant who fit in my arms so comfortably. Even then, she would stretch her legs until they dangled freely from my touch.
I held my Lisa-bear and told her the story of two girls who rode a magic carpet through the midnight sky while everyone else slept. They went from star to star, collecting amazing, healing glitter to sprinkle over the earth. The birthday girl smiled. Words unspoken but meant to be heard were conveyed by the magic of the moment. Mother and child were again reunited in the womb of night.
With my arms as her armor and my voice as her companion, Lisa appeared fearless. She was four and full of quiet wonder. By day, she would retreat to the security of her own seclusive world. A world that a visitor, if persistent, would only occasionally be allowed a glance. When we traded our magic carpet for the comfort of our own beds that night, I wished Lisa a happy birthday and thanked her. For I was the one who had received the gift.
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