Daily Writing 9.20.29

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Prompt: But the butter wouldn’t stick to the bread…

It was getting colder. Soon, Elenore knew she would have to fire up the furnace, but she was detemined not to do so until her boy came home from college. 

She grinned at one particular memory from his last visit home, when she’d been carrying (yet another!) basket of laundry back to be put away in his (now, temporary!) bedroom.

He’d been sitting on his bed covered in every throw, wrap, blanket, and oversized towel he could find, shivering like the dickens, teeth chattering, lips blue.

“What on earth?” Elenore had been understandably alarmed.

“What?” Had been the wide-eyed response. He’d flung his hands out, knocking off a layer of prayer shawls, eyes saucer-big. 

“Your mouth! Your face, it’s blue. Are you really that cold?”

“Oh, that! Sorry. I picked up an icee on the way home.”

“An icee! It’s thirty degrees outside!”

“Yeah, well. I like getting really cold, and then warming up after.” His face grew red and his eyes dropped. “Gee, I’ve never really said that out loud before. Sounds kind of weird.”

“Kind of.”

She’d closed the door and then leaned against it, hand pressed to her mouth – the last thing the kid needed was his own mother making fun of him, even if that wasn’t her intention.

Now, Elenore considered whether she wanted to go ahead and fire up the furnace, or stay chilly for just a little while longer.

“No,” she whispered. It was beyond chilly – she’d gone to make a sandwich yesterday and the butter hadn’t even stuck to the bread but had torn it – a big, heart-shaped hole in the middle.
“No,” she whispered again, this time eyeing the thermostat,  a small grin spreading across her face. She decided she would warm herself up “the old fashioned way.” 

She padded on down the hallway, in search of her stash of prayer shawls.

Daily Writing – 09.19.2020

Today’s prompt: Write a poem or story using the following words: generations, trouble, tender, and vibrant.
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The leaves on the trees were still tender when he left, nibbled each morning by the deer that came to graze in the areas left too long neglected by the course owner and his mower.

Janelle pulled her sweater closer to her body as she swished the end of her nightdress through the ankle high grass on the way across the lawn to move the sprinkler, the earth under her feet cool and moist with the morning dew.  The ground became more sodden as she put one foot before the other, not thinking about the mud squikking up between her toes or the grit under her nails as she overestimated the thickness of the hose when she clutched at it with an unthinking hand.

She dragged it  to the nearest piece of concrete – just far enough to keep it from leaving a permanent scorch mark on her lawn – then padded back into the house to wash the grime off her feet.

All of this action, done in a fugue. There was no room in her mind for thoughts – the red wall of rage had been washed away with tears and was no longer the vibrant screaming presence it had been. Now her mind was white noise. 

The children would be up soon. She would have to consider breakfast. She bent to get the Bisquick from the cupboard  – long neglected as it was, family pancake Sundays a thing of the past for quite a long time, now – and ignored the twinge in her back. She was going to have to muscle through, no matter how bad it got. 

“Pancakes!” The squealing voice accompanied the thumping of six-year-old feet and a full-body tackle-hug – or at least as much of her full body the little guy could reach. “Thank you for making pancakes, Mommy!”

They laughed together and got milk and forks and plates, but there was not enough milk in the world to wash down even a single bite of those pancakes. 



I remember being a dawdling child.
I never realized before,
My life was full of wonder back then. I was more patient, more observant.
I had no where else to go. No one was somewhere, waiting for me.
Finding myself in a similar state, in the middle of my morning shower –
I tried to look at life the way I used to back then.
I trapped the water within a self-embrace, then opened my arms and watched the water fall to the shower pan and I imagine I’m creating 1980’s paint spatter art, or perhaps a music video for the J. Giles Band.
I tip my chin and focus my attention
My goal is to feel water spray against every part of my face.
The streams of water are individual droplets.
I can guide the streams with the tips of my fingers.
It tickles.