Engulfed in Memories

No one ever talked to the old man. Anytime someone passed him while he sat on the front porch, he would frown at them. He never talked to anyone; he rarely left his house. No one understood why he was the way he was, sitting on the porch silent.

“Mommy why is old man Sal always sitting there never talking?” the little girl questioned to her mother.

“I don’t know sweetie. Maybe he is lost in memories from the past,” the mother replied.

He grasped her hand.

“Remember when you forgot to tell your parents I was taking you out to dinner for our first date?” the old man chuckled.

“Remember when you told a random girl in the hair salon about how amazing I was and how much you loved me? Remember when you freaked out later after you found out it was my mother you were talking to?” he laughed.

“Remember when I got down on one knee and asked you to marry me at your family reunion?” he smiled.

“Remember when you tripped on our wedding day, leaving the chapel and I said I would always be there to catch you when you fall?” he asked, tightening his grip on her hand.

“Remember when we saw the glow of our first child’s eyes as you held her for the first time and we cried over the little life we brought into this world?” he said as tears filled his eyes.

“Remember when you talked me into taking a vacation to the beach and it was a time with out family of five that we vowed to never forget?” he asked.

“Remember when I threw you a surprise 40th birthday party?” he said with a side grin.

“Remember when you threw me a surprise retirement party?” he asked.

“Remember when we baptized all of our grandchildren in one day?” he said with disbelief in his voice.

“I remember all of those moments. Those are what will keep me going until I see you again one day. Don’t forget me. I didn’t go through 70 years of marriage for you to go and forget me now. Oh and honey, I love you,” he said tenderly as a tear glided across the wrinkled on his face.

He closed the casket lid, placed the red tulips on top, turned and whispered, “see you soon my love” and walked out the door.


Reigniting a Fire

When I was in elementary school, writing prompts were one of my favorite things to do. I was the nerd in the back of the classroom smiling from ear to ear as the rest of the class groans while the teacher explained that the next hour would consist of writing time. As I ventured into high school, writing quickly became about writing essays, argumentative papers, and reflections. While I enjoyed writing those, I lost my passion for it. The reintroduction into writing through prompts my senior year has reigniting the fire for writing.

I learned that the passion I have for writing is abundant within fiction. When I am introduced to a prompt, my mind goes wild with the possibilities in which I can produce using a pencil and paper. I love the concept that the possibilities are endless. I also may love the fact that I am in control of what happens in the story. (That love comes from an honest control freak in which case sometimes I admit to.)

The journey of reigning the fire for creative writing was not a smooth ride at first. In the beginning, I just let my mind wander and nothing ever happened. I starred at a blank sheet of paper and my frustration level increased. Once I started reading examples of other works of art created by writers as well as using prompts or pictures as an initial spark, the fire took a lot quicker.

I have noticed that I am a descriptive writer. I use dialogue but not a significant amount. I only use dialogue when I feel that it is necessary to carry on the story. Most of my writing consists of description. I include a myriad amount of description because I appreciate when authors I read include description; it allows me to picture the story in my head.

Today in class the fire was blazing after the prompt about a girl sitting in an airport. I immediately visualized a story that included minuscule details in which I would make resurface with more significance later. My group members loved what I had written so far and encouraged me to continue so that they could know what happens next. Of course that only made me more passionate about the prompt. Instead of following the second prompt in class, I decided to continue with the first prompt that was introduced.

I am excited to see where my mind takes the rest of the story. I have some ideas, but I have found that I am more successful if I just let my heart and my hand do the work and my brain can catch up and fix the little mistakes later. It makes me warm to think about the fact that my passion for writing has been reignited. When I was in fifth grade, I was convinced that I would publish a story I wrote. I laugh now, thinking about how terrible that story was. I can’t help but think, though, that my dream of becoming a published writer in fifth grade still lives on inside my heart–maybe one day.