Well, hello, friends.
I’ve been a busy bee. And I’ve written something that I would like to share for feedback, and to let you know that I’m still writing like a fiend. I just have time issues for when I can post (right now, for example, my students are working on an extra-credit test assignment thingy, or something). So here goes.
For National Novel Writing Month, I’ve decided to write my memoir. In anticipation for it, I’ve written a bit. I’d like to share the introduciton with you.
You sit in the carrier your dad wears,
little fingers drumming on his shoulders, tickling his ears,
patting his buzzed hair.
Your knuckles aren’t defined yet, just little dimples winking at everything
so happy to just be around.
The breeze shakes your brothers cold.
The meatball mullet of your oldest brother, Justin, stands on edge. The curls at the nape of his neck look electrified, as if he spent too long wearing socks, shuffling on the carpet, and shocking your old dog, Jasmine.
You are snug, swaddled like the Son, and your green eyes lull to a close by your father’s strong footsteps as he climbs the mountain.
He stops, whispers, “Whitney” and you yawn, reaching little hands to the little bright sun. Your jaw drops all of the two centimeters it can open.
In front of you: a glacier. It blankets the top of the mountain and hugs fast to the body all the way down. Your brothers run up its surface, slip and slide back down–all laughter and red cheeks. Your dog Buck, young as you are, barrels through the same five feet of ice. An ice treadmill, he marathons the distance barking, hopping, and tail wagging. In nine years, you will watch him fall down a hill to his final minutes.
You struggle to escape, to join your brothers. You hear the whisper of the melted drops as they slide down the glacier, cool warnings of the future. You feel for the first time that everything will melt down. Your family, once a glacier, will end an ice cube in a lake of water that spreads across the states. Your father’s strong shoulders will collapse under the inner child–an unstable, insane 7 year old perched permanently on his shoulders. Your eldest brother will freeze into cocaine consumption, thawing out years behind you (but nevertheless remaining your hero). Your middle brother will burn up into the atmosphere, but settle down rooted firmly in the earth–ashes scattered but encouraging new growth. Your mother will be come a waif, a wraith, a shadow, but eventually find the sunlight once again.
And you, my child, will keep reaching your winking fingers towards the small, bright sun.