Writing Prompt-- what am I?

Writing Prompt-- visualize yourself as something. What is your essence, what is it used for?

In and of myself, I have stories to tell-- of whence I came and what once was. In my present form, while I can be discarded, I seem to exist in order to be of service and the service I provide is to affect. I can be thought important, or appear unassuming, but certainly there's more to my make up than meets the casual eye. Depending on how I'm handled, sometimes I'm rough, sometimes I'm smooth. Sometimes I can be seen in a pack. Sometimes I'm literally by myself. And sometimes, but not always, I can pressed upon with varying results . I'm paper :D

Writing Prompt: Laughter… Tell us who, what, and why that happens

This is the memory that this prompt had me revisiting.

My youngest brother picked me up from the bus station.

He was in the process of moving back home to help our mother.

My father wasn’t doing too well and was in fact the reason for my visit. It had been several months since I had last seen him, so I didn’t have a visual on how he was truly doing. He had been in and out of the hospital a few times in the past year but, again, I hadn’t seen him since the previous Christmas, and because of not having had access to a visual, I was determined to continue entertaining optimism.

At one point during the drive to the house, my brother mentioned that our father hadn’t eaten for a few days. I expressed my surprise at this. Earlier, when I had spoken to my mother over the phone, she specifically said my brother had given him some, “muffin.” When I brought this up, he looked at me and said, “Muffin? I didn’t give him any muffin.”

Sticking to my story, I repeated, “She said, earlier today, you gave him some muffin.”

After a few seconds of silence, he shook his head, did a camera take to the heavens and started to laugh.

Wanting in on the joke, “What? What’s so funny?” I asked.

Still laughing, he looked at me and said, “Morphine.”

What had sounded like, ‘muffin’ to me, was actually, ‘morphine.’ Sometimes, with certain words, my mother’s accent can give it a different meaning. Case in point.

And so, we cracked up.

And I needed and appreciated it.

It felt so good to be gifted with that moment and join in with him on that laugh. It felt just as wonderful to share that laugh in a later conversation with our other brother who, at the time, was also en route. It's a perfect memory for what turned out to be such a life changing time.

It’s the only memory of laughter I can connect to that visit.

A Couple on the Subway Platform

Rush hour on the Subway platform.  People milling about, some making connections, some waiting to make connections, all a step closer to their next destination.

Amidst the crowd, an older couple materializes. A man and woman, both with salt and pepper hair -- both easy on the pepper.

I noticed him first. He wore glasses and his upper back was a bit rounded in a way that made me think of someone who wore backpacks for a majority of his life. Maybe, once upon a time, he was an avid backpacker -- the way some people were once pub crawlers or avid coffee drinkers. Or perhaps he was just someone whose shoulders had a proclivity towards rising up -- maybe whilst sleeping -- one would be amazed to learn of the things one does whilst sleeping --, so that now, after years of being comfortable or unaware in this practice, had finally settled on up as its go to position.

She, his traveling companion, appeared the more modestly stylish and aware of the pair. Case in point, noticing his hair's state of disarray, she reached out and began finger combing it into place.

He patiently waited until she finished the section she'd been working on, and then, without missing a beat, reached out to finger comb her hair. She ducked and waved his hands away. He laughed jovially and a minute later, allowed her to finish finger combing the other side of his head. He even assisted by turning around for her.

Not too long after the grooming, it appeared he asked a hygiene question. She leaned in, smelled his breath, then shook her head and patted his shoulder reassuringly. A moment later they were holding hands.

Shared laughter, looking out for each, comfortably & discreetly navigating private affairs in public, holding hands.

Glad I got to witness one of the many faces of Love, in action.

Dinosaur at the Laundromat

Earlier at the laundromat.

"Mommy! Mommy!" the little boy called out. He looked to be about 3 or 4.

"Mommy! Mommy!" He called out again.

When certain that he had her full attention, he paused, then stomped, growled loudly, curled his hands--dinosaur-talon like--, and proceeded to stalk his mother--slowly, deliberately and full of undeniable relish.

His mother was one of the two attendants on duty.

She, in turn, mirrored his curled hands but as soon as he was within reach, grabbed him and hugged him.

He gave a repeat performance.

Twice :)

Loved it 😊

Brava, to mother and child💐

Still Mad, What I Wrote Based On a Writing Prompt

I'm taking an online writing class.  The instructor gave the following prompt for the day:

☼"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anais Nin
Writing Prompt:
Question - What have I been unable to say? What is insatiable in me to say if I could just get it said?☼

Here was my reply:

The truth of the matter is I’m still mad.

Yes, I do believe everything happens for a reason and that things are always working out for me and that we ended the way we ended because it was healthy and necessary.

But I am still mad.

I am mad at the events that led up to our amicable—at least on the surface—goodbye.  I am mad that I kept my silence for as long as I did.  I am mad that I tried to make things work even though at times I felt like I was the only one trying.  And I am mad that as soon as I started to speak up and make requests, you decided it was time for us to part ways.

And while I’m still sorting all of that out, yes, I still do believe everything happens for a reason and things are always working out for me.

I am grateful I don’t live there anymore. I am grateful I haven’t seen or heard from you since.  I am grateful every time I’m on the bus and it picks up passengers at your stop that you’re not one of them. I am grateful for that amicable—at least on the surface—goodbye.  I am grateful for the latter because I believe that one day it will feel 100% real and I’ll no longer add the words, “on the surface.”

I’m working on forgiveness.

I’m working on forgiveness because I know things are better for me this way.

I’m working on forgiveness because living there had stopped being nurturing to my spirit and leaving was/is a blessed, invaluable gift from the Universe.

I am working on forgiveness because I can say, without a doubt, the totality of the experience of you has contributed to my growth.

I am working on forgiveness because, underneath it all, I think you did the best you felt you could do.

I am working on forgiveness because one day when I see you, I genuinely don’t want to be mad any more.

But if I’m being honest with myself, at this time, I’m still mad.