This is my response to a writing prompt an instructor at the Indiana Writer’s Center gave us at the end of a rewarding six week class about creative nonfiction. It is random, but contains the many pieces that make me who I am. Some pieces may not make sense to anyone but me. In time, they will make sense as I bring my story alive on paper…
The house smelled extremely clean-the lemon-scented smell of floor cleaner, the chemical-laced sweetness of wood polish, the new carpet smell, even though the carpet had not been new in a long time.
Wide-open cornfields/ walking sticks clanking/ red steps/ sick grandma/ hospital bed/ Riley’s Children’s Hospital/ Black leather work belts/ Hands/yellow-bathing suit/ White ceiling/ Ceiling light/ Fractured arm/ Throwing up at church/ Dr. French/ Dusty steps/ Purple picture kindergarten/ Violin/ Phillip the Tree/ Books/ Kindergarten tracing shapes/ Pencils/ Running shoes/ Mike Eup/ Sacred Heart/ Kindergarten/ Desk/ Food/ Addiction/ Aunt Margaret
She smiles with the same mouth as my grandpa, a Day mouth-close-set teeth, thin lips. Her eyes, saucer-like, sparkling with wisdom and underneath a sense of deep-seated hurt. As I stare into her eyes it is as though I am looking into my own. Curious lady with the vw bug, 1982.
“Stop that messing around in my kitchen. The kitchen is closed.”