Maureen H. Cronin
Serving as a tribute to a dear friend with an incredible life against insurmountable odds, Ms. Cronin paints a portrait of Rosemary Flanagan, a woman who recovers from non-Hodgkins lymphoma as a child, a failed marriage and alcoholism. This story of the friendship between Rosemary and Christine deepens as one is diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of thirty. It is this friendship that brings them to a God of their understanding and to the true nature of love.
A portion of the proceeds will be donated to breast cancer awareness programs.
Maureen Cronin has authored several business articles and short stories. Her first short story, When The Warmth Comes, won local critical acclaim during her high school years, and served as the springboard to attend the college of her choice. This is her first published novel.
It was Easter, and I had spent the night on the couch, little Matthew coming out in the morning and waking me up with a smile only owned by five year olds who are woken up and fed and dressed and put to bed by people who love him. I smile when he asks me why I don't sleep at home, and I answer that it's because I don't have a couch at home, looking at him sideways to see if he's got it. "Do you have a bed?" he asks finally, screwing up his eyebrows - so much like Jack - and cocking his head - so much like Rosemary - I can't believe how clearly I can see two people in his little body. I stumble to the bathroom and mention something about the Easter Bunny, so that he is distracted, and he wants to wake up Mommy and Daddy now, so he does. Before Rosemary got sick, people would say she slept like the dead. But no one says that anymore, even though she does. And Jack is up, and rosemary's mother, Bridie, who lives there too, is up, making sure I have film for the camera, as Rosemary is seated at the kitchen table and Matthew finds the Easter eggs we hid all over the house the night before, hinting to him, hot,cold, very hot, if it was a snake it would bite your toes, ooo very cold now, and Matthew runs to Rosemary's lap with each found and brightly colored egg as she sits weary, smiling at her yound son, and her mother whispers to me to get pictures of her with the baby, because they still call him that, get pictures of Rosie with the baby, she whispers to me again, her hushed whisper urgent and panicked, clouds suddenly filling my vision, as I hide behind my camera, clicking as often as I can, until the constant click-shhddrr, click-shhddrr, click-shhddrr of the camera begins to sound like last Easter, last Easter, last Easter over and over, and I am ashamed.
