I remember writing my first story when I was 13. It was about bears of different colors. It was the only way I could wrap my head around my first encounter with the racial divide that existed in the deep South. In my part of the world brown comes in all different shades; we can be pale as the white folks and as dark as the darkest Africans. The details are unimportant now.
My teenage years were haunted by an Italian and later a Russian Jew would unleash chaos in my otherwise sheltered life. But life can't be lived within the pages of a book or even a notebook filled with stories. I had to embark on a journey to discover this life for myself eventually.
I was too busy living so I stopped writing. The decade saw me accomplish things, marriage, a few degrees, even a child. Not bad for embracing life and living it.
Then I saw the doctor open his mouth and even though I didn't hear it, I saw him speak the word "cancer." Like a bloated corpse after deep winter thaw, emotions rose to surface. I was overwhelmed. The blank screen of a new word document beckoned, as if it had been wait for just this moment. So I began to write. Again.
But I am determined that this summer will not be a repeat of the summer she died. I did what I didn't that summer, on a whim I decided to go to Egger's Ice Cream Parlor. Last time I was there, I think we only had the one kid. He doesn't really like ice cream. His brother loves ice cream.
To my surprise, they were having an open mic night. My oldest son has been taking piano lessons and has worked his little butt off to learn how to play Ode to Joy. He's seven and is in love with Beethoven. There are worse addictions.
Watching him play just took my breath away. Next to me, his brother shouted "THAT'S MY BROTHER!" as everyone applauded Little one is cute. The girls thought this was doubly cute.
I didn't get ice cream but a milk shake. I didn't expect to have the pleasure of watching my son play in public with such confidence. I didn't expect the pride in my younger son's voice, cheering for his brother. Yet, that is exactly what I found.
This is why I have to write. Life is made up of moments. A picture or a video can never quite capture a moment the way a few well strung words can. These words will allow me to capture the fluidity of this experience in such a way that I can take it out, dust it off and savor it, over and over again until it makes me sick to my soul.
My teenage years were haunted by an Italian and later a Russian Jew would unleash chaos in my otherwise sheltered life. But life can't be lived within the pages of a book or even a notebook filled with stories. I had to embark on a journey to discover this life for myself eventually.
I was too busy living so I stopped writing. The decade saw me accomplish things, marriage, a few degrees, even a child. Not bad for embracing life and living it.
Then I saw the doctor open his mouth and even though I didn't hear it, I saw him speak the word "cancer." Like a bloated corpse after deep winter thaw, emotions rose to surface. I was overwhelmed. The blank screen of a new word document beckoned, as if it had been wait for just this moment. So I began to write. Again.
But I am determined that this summer will not be a repeat of the summer she died. I did what I didn't that summer, on a whim I decided to go to Egger's Ice Cream Parlor. Last time I was there, I think we only had the one kid. He doesn't really like ice cream. His brother loves ice cream.
To my surprise, they were having an open mic night. My oldest son has been taking piano lessons and has worked his little butt off to learn how to play Ode to Joy. He's seven and is in love with Beethoven. There are worse addictions.
Watching him play just took my breath away. Next to me, his brother shouted "THAT'S MY BROTHER!" as everyone applauded Little one is cute. The girls thought this was doubly cute.
I didn't get ice cream but a milk shake. I didn't expect to have the pleasure of watching my son play in public with such confidence. I didn't expect the pride in my younger son's voice, cheering for his brother. Yet, that is exactly what I found.
This is why I have to write. Life is made up of moments. A picture or a video can never quite capture a moment the way a few well strung words can. These words will allow me to capture the fluidity of this experience in such a way that I can take it out, dust it off and savor it, over and over again until it makes me sick to my soul.
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