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Instructor: Mindy Baker mbaker@branford.k12.ct.us
“The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.”
-Anais Nin
Gold Cross
ReplyDeleteLinks of shining gold held together by faith and tempered metal, leading to a cross of burnished steel; enshrined upon it is our savior, prostrate upon his inverted X. Pain mars his metallic visage.
It was given to me by my mother when I made my First Communion. I was seven; I received it wrapped in tissue paper, settled in a white satin bag. I remember the taste of the communal wafer that day; dry and chalky. It didn’t taste like God.
I wore the cross every day for years. It was my faith made physical. It connected me to my mother, to my God. The cross weighed cold against my skin during fevered dreams.
I lost my faith the same year I lost my cross. I was fourteen and ready to single-handedly dismantle organized religion. I was faithless and angry. The Lord was not my shepherd. I misplaced my cross along the way, some dusty crevice holding my faith hostage; a glint of light entombed with crumbs and dead flies. I wept at night for the loss of what I once believed to be a certainty.
Fives year later the cross was presented to me again, once more by my mother. She had found it and let out the chain so I could wear it. It lies in a coiled heap upon my desk, between a half-empty water glass and a small mound of antacids. I cast furtive glances at it, but decide to let it rest where it has already started to gather dust.
I never much liked gold, anyways.
'Blankie'
ReplyDeleteWhen I was born my mother gave me a blankie and I slept with it.
It was white like clouds and had three animal characters on it.
When I was three I dislocated my left elbow and my dad scooped me up in that blankie and brought me to the hospital.
It was comforting and reminded me of home.
When I was six I got really sick and cuddled that blankie all day.
It smelled like soap because I used to wrap myself with it after baths.
When I was seven my teacher called me a cry baby and I cried into that blankie.
It soaked up ever tear and I wasn’t a cry baby anymore.
When I was eight and my dad got really mad at me for not finishing my homework I held that blankie.
It made the welts from his belt stop throbbing.
When I was ten and I learned about ‘My Changing Body’ I went home and buried my face into that blankie.
It made me feel like things weren’t moving so fast and nothing would change.
When I was twelve I got my first period and I put that blankie up in my closet.
It was too childish and I was a woman now.
When I was fourteen my mom had her first heart attack and I grabbed that blankie out of my closet.
It still smelled like soap and reminded me of times when everything was alright.
When I was sixteen, while everyone was having sweet sixteen parties, I sat home with that blankie.
It reminded me of times when we didn’t pay medical bills and we had the money to have parties.
When I was seventeen I transferred to a new high school for senior year, leaving all my friends and memories behind.
My blankie didn’t make things better, it reminded me of my old house, my old friends, how things used to be.
I still sleep with my blankie every night.
It’s the only constant I have anymore.
“Crossing”
ReplyDeleteA bridge rests
Alone and dirt-crusted
A bridge rests
Old and Abandoned
Until one past-day
When a boy
Came and fixed
The restless bridge
That was once
Two pieces
Of wood stuck
Together to produce
A resting bridge
For the purpose
Of crossing a
Little babbling brook.
So, I have this bunny, right?
ReplyDeleteI know I’m 18 years old, but it’s cool to have a keepsake, right?
Wrong. According to the “cool” kids.
My bunny, Max, that’s his name (I went through a Where The Wild Things Are phase when I was younger), he was actually my sister’s, but she didn’t like him, so because I’m the younger sibling, I naturally get the leftovers, sloppy seconds, you know the deal.
Best meal I’ve ever had.
He was my boy! I took him everywhere and did everything with him because I wasn’t creative enough to have an imaginary friend.
I’d take this pile of rags over a million dollars, truth be told.
He was the Starsky to my Hutch, the Robin to my Batman, and I guess you could even say the Kobe to my Shaq.
Because he was a bunny and didn’t have hands, I held his ear and carted him everywhere, even the places he didn’t want to go.
The bathroom, the emergency room, the laundry room, the any-room-that-wasn’t-my-room room.
Our travels to far off kingdoms, gunfights with bandits, and even reluctant tea parties tore Max apart.
After every rip I wouldn’t think anything of it (he’s a boy, boys are tough, girls have cooties, blah blah blah).
I didn’t think anything of it until his body was the remnants of cotton tatters.
I didn’t think anything of it until his stitches were more prevalent than his own skin color.
I didn’t think anything of it until he stopped smelling like that smell; you know the one, the one that doesn’t smell like anything, it just smells rights.
Now I think about it all the time.
Max was my childhood, every minute of it, through the easy or the hard.
Now he hangs out in my closet all day because I’m “too old for this crap, I’m not a little kid anymore.”
Max got his smell back, but he’s still torn to pieces.
Now I realize that I’m never too old to be a kid, cool or not, and that’s that.