By Starred Meriadoc (emsvuleki@hotmail.com)

i gazed at the sparkling picture... a vision before me, what never was. the neon sign blinked before me a rhythm. the sign pleaded, "frodo's heart... now open..." i couldn't stand to watch it flicker, so i pulled the plug. the sign went black and in my mind, i could see him fall, lying in a puddle of blood. where was frodo? and sam, for that matter? they had been gone for months... they seemed like years. i just wanted to spend five minutes being productive and not knitting an afghan for sam's and my first child and bothering if sam and frodo were coming home soon.

I always knew i was promised to samwise. i always knew i would have an army of children with him. but at this moment, i was afraid sam would never come back so i could have an army of children with him. who knew what they were doing? travelling the world, trying to find themselves? being at one with nature? i wanted them back. frodo in my arms for the miniscule few seconds samwise would allow... feeling his encompassing warmth... a chill down my back. and then torn away only to be caught in one of sam's sloppy kisses. i loved sam... i loved him dearly... but frodo satisfied every length of sensual gratification i desired... some men were meant to be heroes... others were meant to be gardeners.

i picked up a daffodil by the roots. one sam had planted for me. it had grown tall and proud, trumpeting sam's love for me. i put it in a vase with water, wishing i could save it. sometimes, it was ironic. it would seem i was pushier than every boy, but then i would see the daffodil year after year... touch its petals... fall to the ground and weep with happiness.

i could see the weeping willow blooming out the round windows. mr. frodo's tree, sam always said. "i never seen such a mellon collie tree as a weepin willer and a hobbit as mr. frodo." i couldn't help myself if i loved both men... the soft, silly, rustic samwise gamgee and the free, melancholy, cosmopolitan frodo baggins.

putting down my knitting and looking at books, the clock chimed three o'clock. i noticed it was rethe 14. they'd been gone since halimath... for too many months gone. i was beginning to wonder... the minute i pulled the plug from the neon sign, did frodo fall into a puddle of blood? or was he cold and shivering, trying to find his lost way? i suppose i would never know until they come home. if they ever come home.

~

Pretty Good Year