"You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream..."

~C.S. Lewis

Writing Prompt #10

Write a memory that you have about a grandparent.

Now write about it from your grandparents perspective.

#9: Redo

If you could visit anyone on the planet right now, who would it be?

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“Can I rephrase that?” I’d say, standing in the doorway of 1994 by my grandfather’s hospital bed— but this time as an adult, in an adult body, and with a more fully developed adult mind and understanding of the situation and its repercussions.

I would go stand beside my younger self and beside that hospital bed where my grandfather lay, broken but peaceful, a mixture of chemicals keeping him sedate. With one hand on my younger self’s shoulder, I would stroke my grandfather’s cheek. I would tell him I love him—and mean it—and of the moments I wish I could remember and the home videos I wish I could make real—and not just fiction—in my mind again.

I would tell him that Grandma is still here with as much life as ever, though she is slowing down, and there seems to be a bit of sadness and quietness in her eyes now. She’s going blind and she fell down a couple weeks ago, but she’s okay. 

She still keeps his photo by her bedside.

Then I would sing to him. I hope he can hear me—the nurses said he could hear me.

In real life, I am not there. But years of loss and grief, I hope, have shaped the way I approach such pain and sadness. I wish I could take that moment just one more time.

My mother once told me that, as that timid and uncertain little girl, I had reached out and held my grandfather's hand. "When you took his hand, he tried to open his eyes," my mother told me. "He wanted to open his eyes so badly."

I remember nothing.

I yearn for a redo—I yearn to love more fully and with more intention. And I hope my grandfather, in his heavenly home, heard me rephrase that.

"Thatched Cottages at Cordeville" by Vincent Van Gogh

"I've just kept on ceaselessly painting in order to learn painting."

~Vincent Van Gogh

Prompt #9

First, it is cool. Much cooler even just a few feet lower than ground level. It smells of damp dirt, rich soil, cut grass, but all intensified—the way the clean earth smell rises after rain has come and gone. It smells of relaxation and release. And that is fitting. I am in a graveyard, after all. And I am here to rest.

But before I explain myself to you, why I am lying in a cemetery, a plot, to be precise—you, who are presently furrowing your brows and wondering what good can come of graveyard wishes and really as adults haven’t we moved past the self-satisfying death scenes? (And I assure you, I am alive and well and happy for it)—I should first explain, well, me….or the Me of 2014:

I wade through toys and diapers and sticky juice puddles. I wear my workout clothes all day, for three days, before I find a minute to climb into the shower. I am the constant referee of physical and vocal showdowns. I no longer own a shirt without paint, puke, or grease stains. I have heard the word “mom” in every possible tone and volume, and more often in a never-ending loop of atonal cacophonies. I wake every morning to the imperial demand for breakfast; and I fall into bed every night just as my newborn wakes up and demands her midnight snack. I cannot finish a load of laundry without distraction. I cannot finish a sentence of a book without interruption. I cannot finish a thought in my own head with disruption. The Me of 2014 cannot remember what it was like to not be bone-tired; to have a home I wasn’t embarrassed about; to have moments of peace and relaxation; to remember that I’m actually a living entity with a singular consciousness; to take a single breath unfettered; to not be drowning.   

And so I run here, to lie next to my mother’s bones. To be with her. Not to die. Just to have silence; just to lie here, in the cool ground, the smell of good earth around me. To look up and see white wisps of cirrus moving across dusty blue Californian skies. To breathe in and out. Again. Again. To hear nothing but my breathing; to close my eyes and hear my own thoughts. And then, okay, yes, indulge me here, my tolerant audience, to sigh and ask how.

“How?” I say. “How can I do it?”

And to hear a sigh next to me. “Mm.” Her bones cloak themselves in the living image of my mother—not small and sunken as she was that final year. But plump and warm, as she was before I left home for school. And she nods. “Yes, that is a fine question, isn’t it?”

And I keep looking at the sky, keep reveling in my breaths, and in the silence. “I don’t think…” my voice trembles, “I don’t know if I can. Or if I want to. There isn’t enough of you left inside.” I close my eyes against the shame of this.

“You didn’t know me at thirty,” is all she says.

We lay here together, watching clouds and the shadows of trees as the evening breeze moves through them. We savor our silence. I breathe deeply.

“I got lost.”

She turns to watch me. “We all do, I think.”

“I still need you.”

She rolls onto her side, puts her warm hand on my cheek. She looks at me wistfully, allowing herself this one small moment of maternal selfishness. And then she grins, with her crow’s feet and the crinkle on the bridge of her nose.

“You’re cheating, you know? Only a part of me is on the planet right now. If you want to ask a mother how it’s done, go see your sister.” 

Wishes - Writing Prompt #9

My grandmother is a half-Filipino woman who stands a staunch 4'10".  Every inch spunk.  I come from a long line of strong women, and she is at the front.  She practically raised six children, five of which were rambunctious boys, single-handedly.  My grandpa was in the Air Force, and gone a big part of their married life.  He didn't see my mother, his first born, until she was 18 months old.  He served two tours in the Vietnam war, and earned a flying cross for his bravery.  My grandmother once wrote him a letter accusing him of cowardice and running away from all of the children.  Like I said, spunk.  

She isn't doing well.  I have seen her age ten years in the last two.  Her salt & pepper hair is falling out.  Her gait is brittle.  Her long fingers, wrapped in paper-thin, cafe-Au-lait skin, shake constantly.  The other day I watched as my sister took my grandmother's frail, worn hands in her vibrant, smooth ones.  Her hands are a younger version of my grandmothers.  It struck me as odd, to see the same pair of hands at different times in its life holding onto each other.  She methodically clipped fingernails, and smoothed ridges with a faded emery board.  Then, dipping the brush, she painstakingly painted them the color of blushing, brown silk.  The color of summer sighing into fall.  A dying rose.  All the while, my sister murmured a string of questions in a soothing voice.  How is Uncle Andy?  Have you been to any good movies?   Have you seen baby Scarlet lately?  Her voice was answered by my grandmother's signature smoky-sweet one.  

 I sat by, watching the dust mites spin in the late afternoon sun that unapologetically entered the little kitchen.  My gaze finally settled on the ceiling fan that has at least twenty unbroken wishbones dangling from it.  It took me years to figure out why they were there.  I'd just chalked it up to being a charming family tradition.  Then one day, I stumbled across a magazine article about the tradition of WWI doughboys hanging wishbones from a gas lamp in an East Village restaurant.  This ritual is rumored to go back to the Civil War.  It is a good luck charm, of sorts.  They are kept up there so that all of the soldiers will come back safely.   Our relics have yellowed and curled.  Were I sacrilegious enough, I know that I could break one with a hard snap.  I'm certain that when time runs out,  I will have a sound fill my mind.  Not shattering glass, or tearing cloth, but a precise sound of a bone cracking, causing me to bleed internally.  Heartbreak is a sound.

Prompt #9: Decisions, Decisions

If I could visit anybody in the world right now, who would it be?

I'm honestly not sure. Part of me wants to give the heartfelt answer, like one of my siblings or an old friend or something like that, but I don't think that's my answer. I see my family quite a bit. Sure I miss them when it's been longer than a few months, but that's because that's how often I get to see them, and I love it every time. So don't get me wrong, I love seeing my sibling, but I see them often enough that I wouldn't want to use up a wish/hypothetical opportunity such as this. As for my old friends, meh. I am pretty good about keeping in contact with the ones that are close enough for me to care to visit, and the others likely haven't crossed my mind for quite some time, so I wouldn't say any of them. I hope that doesn't make me sound evil.

Next choice would be somebody like a movie producer or somebody. I have dreams and ideas for that industry, I just need connections. So that might be a good choice, except for the fact that just visiting with them doesn't necessarily ensure a deal, and therefore I would be using this scenario up for a gamble. That doesn't sound very appealing.

I really didn't think it would be this tough to answer this question. I'm probably just over-thinking it. 

Hmmmm.....

I've got it. It kind of goes back to the family thing, which is probably for the better. If I were given the opportunity to visit anybody in the world, I think answering that with a family member is something I can feel good about. I got a text from my oldest sister, Tera, just a couple days ago saying that her daughter, Megan, randomly mentioned how much she missed me. She's almost eight years old (I believe) and Tera had just picked her up from school and she went into this random story that went something like, "What if I got called out of class and got picked up, but instead of my usual ride, it was Uncle Corbin picking me up? That would be so cool." Then she went on to say how awesome I am. Reading a text like that from my sister made me smile more genuinely than anything for a good while. So I would say my family. Like a reunion, but if I had to prune it down to only one person, I would have a super fun visit with my niece, Megan.

Some Thoughts on Symbolism

I don't know how many of you struggle with the idea of symbolism in your work. It's been something that gets to me every once in a while. I feel like when I write, I lack the thought and care it takes to put important things like symbolism in my stories. Sometimes I sit there and wonder if I should go back and rewrite something because it's just too shallow, especially since I am not a huge reader (not yet anyway, but working on it), so most of the things I have read have been for school and therefore are always followed by classroom discussion about symbols and themes and motifs and other scholastic things. This is mainly what intimidates me; I know I write things with an intended theme, and I can include motifs if I like, but those are much easier to think about. Symbols, at least the way they have been taught to me, just seem so much harder to consciously include and work with.
If this is something that sounds familiar to you, you might like this cool little article thing that I found. It is A short survey from a young man to a bunch of famous authors about symbolism in their writing. Their answers were really rather entertaining and helpful. I personally found Bradbury's responses to be particularly reassuring.
I hope this helps others the way it helped me. If it's not something you feel you need help with, it's still a pretty neat read, and short, too. Enjoy!

Writing Prompt #9

If you could visit anyone on the planet right now, who would it be?

This prompt was taken from oneminutewriter.blogspot.com

Prompt #8: People are Good

This is not going to be nearly as philosophical as some of you might be hoping (or dreading). I do not intend to go into a great and inspirational speech about the nature of man and how people are decent and blah blah blah. Do I think that stuff is interesting and thought-provoking? Yes. Do I feel that other people really want to hear my thoughts on it? No, at least, not in this setting.
The title is referring to my feeling on having people around. It is good (for me). I am currently house sitting for my sister and her husband while they adventure in South America. My responsibilities include feeding cats, fish and a dog. Cleaning the litter box, taking Ruby (the dog) out to do her business and to go for walks. Also, cleaning the place so that it isn't gross and covered in animal hair, moving cars in the street so they don't get towed, and running them for a few minutes every few days so that they so just sit for two weeks. All this is rather easy to stay on top of, so I made sure to bring my computer and a couple books. I could do some job-finding (because job-hunting is so disappointing), get some writing done, finish a couple books that I've needed to finish for a while, and use their game systems and Netflix and Hulu.
All in all it's a pretty sweet setup for a couple weeks, but here's the thing, I am by myself. I figured all the stuff I just listed would keep my brain busy, and it does, but I still get kind of stir crazy by the end of the day. I've had some good conversations with Ruby. She's a great listener but there's only so much you can talk with a dog about. I never really thought it would be that big of a deal for me to be alone like this. I mean, I spend most of my time watching movies and TV anyway, so why should this be much different? Because I can't pause it and say anything to my Dad or roommate or friend. There is nobody, and I don't live in the area, so I don't have anybody to invite over. I have really come to appreciate living with other people. Sure, it can be annoying when bathroom schedules conflict, or dishes don't get done, or your food gets eaten, but being alone for too long is much worse. I don't want to complain, because it's not too bad (I've had some good phone conversations), it's just not something I would like to do for much longer than a couple weeks.