Regan Schlesinger

After experiences pile up on one another, sorrow and content begins to glaze over. Mr. French had fallen victim to his age; only leaving the four mediocre walls to work in another four mediocre walls. Occasionally he will pick up his daughter from school, which is the only motivation he has to get up. At the ripe old age of forty-two, only few would believe there is a need for change. 

Mr. French has it all; a young girl named after his mother, a dog named after a movie character, and a box hidden in his closet that he swore he would never approach again. Maisy French, a spirited eight-year-old with never ending stories, has unconditional love for Mr. French. If Maisy had not been around, her father would be longing for God’s welcoming delicacies. 

On a particular day, Maisy urged Mr. French to compliment her self taught tricks in the yard. Obeying, Mr. French stood on the porch. All that could cross his mind was the worthless chore that revolves around cleaning a porch that no one but him stands on. “Are you watching, Dad?” Maisy yelled from the length of the old oak tree to where her hero posed. Her glowing skin colors the sun and her eyes, as green as the grass that covers the lawn, sharpens the edge of the skyline. Maisy plants her feet next to the oak tree. The “good luck tree”. The tree that supervises Maisy when her father cannot. Maisy only does her tricks near the oak tree. She claims it has “all eyes”. “Yes, darling. Go ahead,” Her father initiated.

      On that greenlight, Maisy began with her cartwheel. She flipped herself around with a striking landing. Before she could even throw her hands up and pose for her father’s smile, an unusually loud whisper took Mr. French’s attention away from his only attention getter. 

“How was that? Did you see how my leg was straight the entire time?” Maisy continued, only getting louder and more frustrated with each syllable she spoke. “Dad! Did you watch me throw my arms up after I finished? I felt like the girls in those movies we watch. Dad! Dad! Dad!” Reaching her father on the porch, she used her finger to trace where his eyes landed. 

Sketching a dotted line, she followed it as if it were connected to a lifeboat. As she approached it with no hesitation, her mouth flew open when the brown fur put her in awe. “Dad! It’s a groundhog! The ones that ate your garden! It’s so cute, Dad! Can we keep it? Please, Dad! I beg!” Mr. French followed the dotted line behind his daughter, which led him to the speaking groundhog. 

“Pardon me,” the brown fur ball announced, “Can you tell her I am a mole, not those frauds.” Mr. French felt his eyes widen at the same time his head spun. His headache. Must be the headache. Probably the lack of sleep. Most likely that. 

“It’s a mole. A talking mole,” Mr. French corrected, placing his hand on the back of Maisy. Maisy started giggling at her father’s absurdity. She had never seen him talk such nonsense before. Her prompted laughter only clarified Mr. French’s insomnia. 

“No, Dad, animals don’t talk. Only crazies think that!” 

     “You’re right. How silly can I be?” he asked, glaring at the expressive mole. As he was giving direction to his daughter to head inside, the mole blabbered and blabbered. “Really? Only crazies can hear me?” Maisy ran inside as now something else caught her eye. Perhaps an actual groundhog climbed into the house; maybe a throne or chocolates lay at the doorstep. 

     Alone with the mole, Mr. French could come to his senses. “Am I one of those crazy men? The ones who humiliate humanity? I must be, for no one in the right state of mind would be talking to a rodent.” 

     “How ridiculous that statement is. Don’t even begin with the excuses. You can hear me. I am speaking to you, Wyatt.” 

     Wyatt. He knows my name. My life must be in flames, yet no one can be blamed besides the ashamed. I fall into that category.

     “Who are you? I am most certainly crazy. Why must I continue with this nonsense you call a conversation?” The mole, no larger than a book, but whose attitude is much larger than the clouds begins his introduction:

“If you insist, I am simply a mole. I must not know my name, for if I had that clear knowledge, I would share it with you. For now, I only know yours. I am unaware how I had such information about you. I promise I had not stalked you or your daughter prior to such interaction. Consider me a fly on the wall. A mole in the ground, I am. Such desire I have for you, but most sorrow I am here to convey. I request conversation with you to find closure to an everlonging conflict.” 

     “What makes my life a conflict? How is such an odd conflict possible to be evermore? How does a mole in the ground know my conflict? How do I not know my own conflict? Such hypocrisy you hold.” Despite the lack of faith he has in this mole, Mr. French found himself squatting down beside the rodent, practically inviting himself for further explanation. 

     “How may you consider yourself?” The mole continued, this time with more passion. Almost as if he were giving a lecture to a failing student. “For me, I consider myself to be an artist. I paint landscapes of sunsets and this very lawn. I create never before seen colors. I am a singer. I sing only the most devastating, yet inspiring, blues. My voice, lower than any falsetto known to man. I am a chef. Each night I cook the most delicious meals for my many children, courtesy of your garden. If I had the opportunity, everyone would know my name. Even myself. How did you, young sir, take the blessing?”

    Mr. French is in a state of denial fighting a sacred war. “You are a mole. Nothing you said is possible in this world. You must be the crazy one! I am my own man. I have a job, unlike you. I socialize with real, reliable people. I am not a thief who thrives on feasting off of other’s time,” the man rebuts. The lack of breath only elicited a weak ending.

“I have not been sent to quarrel with you. Open such a creative mind you possess, and may you be vulnerable with me. Put aside the fact I am different from you. Take this opportunity not many get to talk to someone as wise as me. Feel gratitude for your change after you leave me, whether it shall be out of spite or dignity. As you stumble away from this oak tree, the life you had been so content with will face alterations. This is not witchcraft, if you must ask, this is you finding reality. I am here for your closure. Closure for Ivy French. What a wonderful name, I might add! What is it, Italian?” 

Ivy. He knows me and Ivy now. How much knowledge does such a pest possess unless this is the test Ivy gave me once she left? Fed me to the oppressed; expected me to feel unstressed when I’m sitting here feeling only the most undressed. Is this the blessing proclaimed to rename me? Reinvent my life without my dearest wife? Is this what the mole was sent to convey? As each year passes, happiness is found within the girl who embodies my hopes and dreams. My purpose is to mutter her screams, but what shall I do when her aches begin to flutter away as I long to hear her excitement from far above the clouds? Does God mock my pity begs? I press my hands and nose against the glass, only to be met with a “I’m sorry, but you had your chance, Mr. France.” 

“Mr. Mole, I shall call you,” Mr. French softens his voice, “Your name I call you is Mr. Mole. Nice to meet you, Mr. Mole. I shall not mention Ivy, for I had sworn to live without her, but I am sure her spirit haunts me in my daughter. Mr. Mole, Ivy was a chef as well. She added her personality into the creation I call Maisy. I want to feast on my daughter’s dreams. I am a thief. I want to steal everything Ivy gave Maisy. I see Ivy’s free spirit within my daughter’s. Ivy is a singer. I hear her angelic tunes in the cold wind. Ivy is the best artist I have ever laid my eyes on. She painted my daughter into my identity. Her pinks and blues flow within me and come out as the love I give my daughter. She was all the mighty things you claimed to be. Mr. Mole, you give me such insight. I give you my pride; what must I do to find happiness within myself, so I can love my daughter for my daughter, not Ivy? Must I find happiness within myself?” 

Abruptly, only squeaks could be heard from the mole. Mr. French knew he was not crazy. He indeed was talking to an opinionated mole. It would be crazy to continue talking to a now silent mole, however. Mr. French simply beamed with gratitude. His yellow-tinted teeth reflected onto the pest, and the mole must have come to its senses too, because it burrow itself into the ground. 

Wyatt made his way back to the porch. He followed the dotted line that his daughter sketched out for him not too long ago. The mole was wrong though; the man would not walk away from such absurdity with either spite or dignity. Instead, the man was walking away with gratitude. Gratitude for his wife, his daughter, and himself. Changes may not be sudden, but the mole did his job. He was there for closure. 

He stepped onto the porch. The same porch, but this time it does not look as dirty as Wyatt claimed it to be. Opening the door, all was bliss within the mediocre four walls. Maisy sat at the dining room table, surrounded by markers and crayons. The young girl turned around with a smile, “Dad, were you talking to the groundhog?” 

“Yes, my dear. How silly I am.”

“Why? I could not hear the groundhog? What was she saying?”

“Well, Mr. Mole was telling me how beautiful this drawing is!” Wyatt exclaimed, peering down to the artist that sits at the table. “Do you like it?” She points to the figures colored in with pink and blue crayon, “It’s me and you.” 

“I think it is delightful! How wonderful you draw.” He kissed the top of her head. No, not her head. He kissed her imagination. “Might I ask you a question?” Wyatt presented. Maisy nodded. “Where is your mother? She is still your mother, even if she is not sitting next to you right now.” 

Without hesitation, she pressed her pointer finger to the drawing. “That’s Mom. She is standing next to us.” 

“The tree?”

“Yes, the oak tree I do my tricks by.” 

“Is there a reason why she is an oak tree?”

“It has all eyes. Mom watches me do my tricks. Like today, I heard her speak to me as you were on the porch. It would have been more fun to talk to a groundhog, though. You’re lucky, Dad.” 

“I am, Maisy. I am lucky.”

The box that has been off limits for many years came out of its mole hole. Behind many untouched clothes on the left side of the closet, Wyatt took the box outside and began to dig his very own mole hole. He dug and dug beside the oak tree. Ever so gently, he and his daughter planted the box deep beneath the soil. Neither of them knew what was contained inside the box, but the cursive Ivy was the only needed reason to find the once forbidden closure. 

Wyatt glanced at his daughter. Her green eyes only reflected Maisy. He saw no more of Ivy. Her resemblance was all Wyatt needed to remember his wife. “To find happiness, you must find closure within yourself before you search for it within other people,” Wyatt told Maisy, pointing to her heart. She, in response, giggled for she cannot comprehend such meaning at eight. She must follow the dotted line her father scribbled out for her. For now, all Maisy can do is listen to the oak tree that compliments her various tricks.