Southern Storms (Compass 1)

Her silvery hair was tossed up in a messy bun held together with two knitting needles, and her thick-framed vibrant orange glasses sat on top of her head. She wore a brightly colored bow in her hair that matched her dress for the day, and she always greeted everyone who passed by her house, even when they didn’t speak back to her.

When no one was passing by, she was busy talking to herself—or, more accurately, talking to her husband, who was no longer alive. She also scribbled away on paper, writing letters as if her life depended on the ink bleeding onto the ruled pages.

It was heartbreaking to watch, yet more concerning was how the townspeople ignored her when she did slip out of her delusions. When she greeted the passersby, she was so kind, but the feeling wasn’t mutual. It was as if they were afraid to offer her a wave, a good morning, good evening, or good night on their walks around the block.

What bothered me even more was how quickly people ridiculed her. If they did speak her way, they mocked her, calling her Crazy Joy, the woman who never left her front porch. Rumor had it she hadn’t stepped foot off of that wraparound wooden porch since the day her husband died. Sometimes, teenagers would mock her, flipping her off as they laughed with each other in groups.

“Hi, Crazy Joy. Cook anyone up in your house lately?” they harass before I scolded them and hurried them away.

“Have good days, sweethearts,” Joy said as she waved their way, not even bothered in the slightest. Still, Joy kept greeting everyone who passed, and her smile never faltered. It was as if she was above being bothered by an individual’s judgments and cruelty, as if the others’ opinions and thoughts didn’t affect her joy.

She truly lived up to her name. I wished I could be more like her—less affected by the world around me—but my feelings were so much like the wind, moving wherever they were blown. It was a flaw of mine, one my husband had made sure to tell me about all the time, too.

“Pull yourself together, Kennedy. You can’t react and take everything I say so personally,” he’d always tell me. “Your emotions are going to ruin everything good that we have.”

I’d been trying my best to delete his words from my brain, but it was easier said than done. When someone makes you feel so little, your mind locks onto your flaws.

“I’m sorry they were so cruel to you,” I said to Joy.

She looked my way with the biggest smile on her face and shook her head. “Who was cruel, sweetheart?”

I grinned back.

Never mind.

I went back to reading my book on my own front porch as the beams of sunlight warmed me from head to toe. It was funny thinking about how Joy hadn’t left her house for years. To others, it probably seemed insane, but I understood. I hadn’t driven a car in over a year for my own personal reasons, and Joy hadn’t ventured out for hers.

I wasn’t saying it made sense, but I understood. Sometimes, no matter how much they want to fight it, a person becomes so invested in their fears that they do everything in their power to keep them from coming to life. I didn’t know what Joy’s fears were or what was keeping her from leaving her home; all I knew was I got it.

Life is hard. We have to do whatever it takes to keep ourselves and our minds comfortable. For me, that meant not driving. For Joy, that meant staying home.

I wondered how she managed, though. I wondered how she kept living without stepping foot outside her home. She didn’t seem to have any children or even a caregiver who came to aid her from what I could tell.

Later that morning, my questions were answered as a blue pickup pulled up in front of the house. Needless to say, my jaw dropped to the ground when I saw Mr. Personality step out of the vehicle. He walked his way straight toward Joy’s front porch, his arms filled with grocery bags.

He proceeded to greet Joy, and she stood from the rocking chair as he set the bags down. Then he hugged her.

He hugged her!

I wouldn’t think someone as grumpy as Mr. Personality had the ability to hug someone. The two of them walked inside to put the groceries away, leaving me completely baffled and unable to return to my reading. It took a lot to break me away from a book—and by ‘a lot’, I mean a lot. My house could’ve been on fire, or aliens could’ve beamed me up, and I would’ve still been trying to get in that one last page. When my own love story was broken, I turned to stories to heal the cracks of my broken heartbeats. When my world fell apart, the books still believed in happily-ever-afters. Those books saved me on the days I felt my soul falling victim to the hardest of storms.