parents
The boundless love a parent has for their child is matched only by their capacity to embarrass them.
Inherit
Mom was always the tough one. She was tough for us, because she had to be. She had six kids and could tell you what each one was doing on Friday night, the 6th of September. That woman made life so easy, it was like every problem you could ever have, she knew the answer. And she knew how you needed to hear it, too.
By Miranda Bowron5 years ago in Families
A Book for Remembering
I slammed on the brakes and the 1964 Plymouth came to a screeching halt. The summer night was clear and warm and in the sudden stillness the desert around me seemed to stretch on endlessly. Tears were still streaming from my face. I could feel them burning on my flushed cheeks, eroding away my skin and dripping freely from my chin onto my shirt but I didn't care. I hardly even noticed them to be honest because in that moment when I should have been feeling distraught and heart broken I felt nothing and that was somehow worse. I looked over at the duffle bag that sat innocently on the passenger side seat, the duffle bag that was filled to the brim with cash, the duffle bag that occupied a space that would never be filled with my son ever again. At the thought of my son, my sweet round faced son who would never sit in that seat, never eat cheese pizza in that seat, never listen to Blink 182 and try to sing like Tom DeLonge ever again. These thoughts seemed to scream over and over again in my mind and perhaps it was the stillness of the desert night that so contrasted the heaving sea of anguish that radiated throughout my entire being or perhaps it was seeing the bag that had replaced my own flesh and blood in the passenger seat but the numbness inside of me shattered. I began to scream and beat my hands against the steering wheel of the old Plymouth. I could hear myself screaming to God asking him over and over again to forgive me for getting my precious boy mixed up in all this. I knew that he would not.
By Hayden Buhler5 years ago in Families
The Missing Piece
It had been months since her father’s funeral. Anna sat cross legged on the ground, in the middle of the almost empty room. The scratched and faded wooden floor was cold and hard underneath her, but it seemed to fit her mood perfectly. It had been a long couple of months sorting, tossing, organizing and selling the massive piles of mostly junk that had filled the rooms of the house. When she had first arrived, she had hoped that in the process of going through what he had left behind, she could somehow find things that would make her father less of the stranger he’d always been. Instead, she’d found as much sense and usefulness in most of the items as she’d ever found in her father, which was almost none. She hadn’t found any magic keys that would unlock the mystery of who he was. In fact, she felt further away from him now than she ever had. His death had come to seem like one last ‘Fuck You’ to her. One more mess that wasn’t hers she was expected to clean up, one more scar to try to hide. For the moment, she was just thankful there was still enough work to do to keep her mind from slipping too far down that particular rabbit hole yet.
By Jennifer Wedgle5 years ago in Families
My Dads Guitar
It was 2012. I was managing a “wellness” clinic that was more like a theatrical debut for Tartuff without the religious undertones, but complete with hypocrisy. This was just part of my daily life. I had a fiancé of about 6 years and a daughter of 2 years. My life was perfect- insert an eye roll here. I wished there could be more.
By Niki Colette5 years ago in Families
Gold Roses
I’ll always remember that apartment on Wilcox. The worked-in sofa that was somehow light and dark green at the same time. The seldom functioning A/C which lead us to prop open the windows and invite in the smell of pastries, fresh or rotten depending on the wind. The ornate-but-chipped ceramic bowl by the front door where Will and I left our keys, loose change and the occasional almond. It had a certain charm you would only understand if you had lived there for two years, like we did.
By Jonny Martin5 years ago in Families
Imagine a Garden
Imagine a Garden When I was a little boy our garden was a jungle. Father worked very hard to try and make it a paradise for us. He told us that there were going to be water features, greens to play ball, a labyrinth, a big swing and beautiful flowers all year around. We enjoyed listening to Father dreaming it all out loud for us. And, although we quite liked the jungle as it was, we looked forward to the day when this dream of his would become a reality. Our father had responsibilities away from us and our garden, and as the garden was large and under siege from all sides by thorny brambles and stinging nettles, the passing time often undid a an entire season of his work in his periods absence. So we soon lost faith in the realisation of his dream.
By Markus Thonett5 years ago in Families
Last Words
“I’m so sorry…” Those three words, followed by the off click of the loudspeaker, bounced around the cabin as the tight gasps and random screams evolved into complete panic. Ephram, who had always considered himself a collected man, clenched his armrests so desperately he lost feeling in his fingers as he replayed the pilot’s final words.
By Katie McNeill5 years ago in Families
My Father's House
Ambivalence embraces me as I fumble around the attic of a strange house that is now mine. I engage a necessary task. I feel nothing. A thin, black moleskine is cold in my hand; it’s worn cover cracked from years that are lost to me. Left in the corner of my father’s attic, under a stack of The Sunday Times, it valiantly endured the seasons for perhaps a decade or more. The words “First Guaranty Bank: Carthage, Tennessee” fading from its cover, it is shrouded among cobwebs and dust bunnies, biding its time until this moment of revelation. Perhaps a forgotten piece of marketing tchotchke taking up residence with the other misfits in this attic? Misfits, like me.
By Rick Adventure 5 years ago in Families
