The Violet Hour

There is something different about women who were born by the sea, baptized in salt water, and raised by the tides. We were mermaids, adapting to the temperamental whims of storms that brewed beyond the shores.

Grief was a debt that demanded to be paid. You could give in or push it down, but it would come back either way and charge you double.

Don't look at me! I'm the victim here," Joyce said with a pout. "Um, I don't know if I'd call you the 'victim,' Joyce, you've been scratching at them like a cat." "Only because they have done everything in their power to make it uncomfortable for me!" Joyce said. "What are you talking about?" Jess said. "You know what I'm talking about," Joyce said, leveling her gaze at me. She grabbed a piece of garlic bread, tore it into smaller pieces. "My husband's dead, too! You don't hear me ranting and carrying on about him." "Are you kidding me?" Mike stood up. My dad was shaking his head in disbelief over what she had just said. Jess had a tear rolling down her cheek. She never cried. This was insane. "Joyce, the kids can talk about their mother as much as they want." She did a little fake laugh. "But when is it enough, you know? When---" "And so can I. It's never enough. This is their family home, and Callie was their mother." I looked over at Joyce, whose eyes were as big as dinner plates.

This is not what I planned for dinner. I worked all day on that salmon," Joyce said. "Yeah, and that's probably why it caught fire," Mike said. Joyce shot him a look.

You know what's crazy? Violets are sweet little flowers, but every woman named Violet that I've ever met has been tough as nails.

We don't always understand why things happen, but I do believe things happen so other things can happen. I think it is all part of a wonderful, beautiful story... even if it doesn't always feel that way. I've found that I am always drawn to those who have experienced true loss or tragedy. It just gives a person a real perspective." "What's that?" "Empathy, and an appreciation for joy.

I dreamed about the dark and deep waters of Nantucket, waves rolling on top of a vast, hidden universe. Oceans held so many undiscovered secrets--- wild plant and animal life that had never been seen by people. Thousands of whales swam through my dreams underneath floating ships. I swam alongside a huge gray beast, and although his size made me nervous, we swam together and shared the sea. I emerged on top of the water to swim underneath hundreds of silver stars.

Painting, drawing, sculpture, a little photography. Right now, ceramics are my thing, but I dabble in all forms of expression." "I think all creatives do, a little. It's really about finding the vessel for your message at the moment

Yes, I always go out this early for a walk when the light is purple"--- he gave me a shy smile---"or violet..." "I... me too. It's the Violet hour!

This right here is the holiest of holies, my mother's garden. This is where she grew mint for tea and lavender for sachets and belladonna for--- honestly, I always wondered, but maybe she knew this day was coming? My mother did have a kind of sixth sense for things... Maybe she knew that someday her soul mate would fall prey to a woman who would move in, insult his family, and pour concrete over her garden..." I could see that the comments were coming in hot now, and I kept going. "Some of you say I don't have sympathy for widows going out on the dating scene, but you know what? I do. In fact, are there any of you Callie Knox fans out there who are looking for a great guy? My mother was magic, and I know some of you are magic, too. Maybe you have the kind of magic that can save me and my family from this massive b----" And then I did it. I gave my dad's name, address, and phone number to an Instagram Live audience that was now apparently upward of ten thousand people.

I just want to be real with y'all. That's what my mother always said--- if you want to have an audience, you've got to give them all of you, good and bad. You show them how to make their lives beautiful, but you don't pretend life isn't ugly sometimes, too. And, y'all? I am my mother's daughter. And my mother, she would not have tolerated a vanity sheet cake on her table.

I looked over the menu and preselected the peach and burrata salad. It felt like a summer dish, and South Carolina was in fact the best place for peaches. Georgia had the reputation, but we actually had the better peaches. Those who knew, knew.

Nice to meet you, and thank you for the drink and fries." "Till next time," he said, "when we can share something delicious on purpose." I felt that in my Lowcountry.

You know, Aly, your father and I are getting more serious, and unfortunately I find it very upsetting sharing with another woman..." She smiled like this was a joke, but what she said next had a serious bite. ""I'm very territorial." I took a short inhale. I agreed with her self-assessment but couldn't recall ever having used that word to describe a woman. A dog, maybe, but not a woman.

All her mugs looked alike-ish, but each person had their own color. Like us, all different, though we all went together somehow. Mine was obviously purple; Maggie's was dark olive green, similar to the leaves of her name flower; Gran's was rose red; and my mother's mug was white with silver sparkles.

These dreams of far-off islands, lighthouses... What were they about? Like something calling me. That postcard my dad had sent, who knew when, with an image of an island in the Atlantic. I kept thinking of this National Geographic story I had read as a kid, about a matrilineal family of lighthouse keepers in Iceland, women who wore sealskin coats and were said by the locals to be descended from a Selkie woman. The Icelandic mermaids. Maybe I was like that--- too much time on the land, forgetting my true mermaid self, having lost my sea skin.

There was this time of morning that always gave me peace. I liked to call it the "Violet hour." Not because it was my alone time, although it was, but because the light was the prettiest blue violet. It was the hour before the sun would rise, turning the pitch-black velvet night into the fresh blue brightness of day. It happened right before the world woke up and gave me the slice of the morning to really think, or pray, or problem-solve.

It was a classic southern spread. Shrimp and grits, red rice, biscuits, mac and cheese, pulled pork, and a ton of other sides. It smelled delicious. I made myself a little pulled pork sandwich with Carolina BBQ sauce on a Hawaiian roll. It was even better than it smelled. I made a note of the caterer. Hamby. Of course. Hamby Cateringwas the caterer; they did all the best events in Charleston. We both wolfed down the delicious chicken salad sandwiches, huge helpings of mac and cheese, and two biscuits that were lighter than clouds--- not as good as Maggie's, but pretty good.

I was charmed by the sweet tea in cut-crystal glasses paired with linen napkins on polished silver trays. Where I grew up, I never used a fabric napkin in my life! I loved that those silver trays were monogrammed, but the monograms were their great-grandmothers'. Charlestonians are proud of legacy and traditions, and they (we!) are not afraid to be fancy.

I wasn't born here, but my soul must've been. Charleston is my muse. There is something about the palm-lined streets, brightly colored buildings, and wrought-iron gates leading into secret gardens that made me want to reshape myself in its image.

A deep-yellow sauce dotted with green encircled a plump piece of white fish; gently seared golden skin nestled in a smaller circle of plump cherry tomatoes. There was a small handful of lemon-pepper-drizzled arugula salad with shaved slices of Parmesan cheese. I slid my fork into the side of the fish, popped the opaque flesh into my mouth, and tasted thyme, the ocean, and actual sunshine.

I was born with salt air in my lungs and pluffy mud between my toes. As a girl I wore seaweed in my hair and seashells around my neck. I was raised knowing the tide tables along with my ABCs. I knew not to swim in August or April, because I didn't want to keep company with the jellyfish, and I understood that oysters were best in the fall. I took my afternoon naps alongside the dunes and learned to walk lightly on the hard-packed sand. My backyard was the ocean, and I would always call it home. Although I am named after a spring flower, I am an island girl.

Somewhere along the way, though, I had become timid about life's storms. I had learned to keep my mermaid nature wrapped and hidden. If I had an inner siren, she'd become muzzled in the process of growing up. I'd grown scared, I guess, that if I let my hair out of its tight bun, if I acted on my wild and tempestuous impulses, I would lose control and then be truly lost at sea. This is the story of how I found myself, out there in the storm, and learned my own true nature.

I was born with salt air in my lungs and plus mud between my toes. As a girl I wore seaweed in my hair and seashells around my neck. I was raised knowing the tide tables along with my ABCs. I knew not to swim in August or April, because I didn't want to keep company with the jellyfish, and I understood that oysters were best in the fall. I took my afternoon naps alongside the dunes and learned to walk lightly on the hard-packed sand. My backyard was the ocean, and I would always call it home. Although I am named after a spring flower, I am an island girl.