March Slice of Life Story Writing: Day 31 of 31 / Lasts

Lasts

Because today is the finale of the 2014 March Slice of Life Story Writing Challenge, I am thinking about last times. I could write about my last run in Auckland, my last road trip with my dad, saying goodbye to my students the last time I was a classroom teacher.

Today, I think I will write about the last lunch my husband and I had before becoming parents.

At the hospital, they said, your water broke, but you aren't yet in labor. Go have lunch.

Feeling slightly befuddled and dizzy, we wandered out of the hospital and into the world. People walked by us on the street, and I'm sure they saw a man and a clearly pregnant woman walking along together, but I'm not sure they knew we were hours from becoming parents.

We walked up and down a few blocks, not sure where to go, before stumbling upon a cafe. Should we order coffees? We mused. We might need them. I chose the crostini, my husband the salad.

What did we talk about? Who knows. There was everything to say and nothing all at once. So we made small talk, perhaps commenting on the good service, the rich crema of the espresso, the well-thought-out combination of flavors in the crostini. We might have held hands across the table for a moment.

That was the last time it was just the two of us. Because then, we returned to the hospital. And after many hours, we became three.

And that, is a story for another day.

....

Thank you to everyone who participated in the Slice of Life Writing Challenge this month, and to everyone's thoughtful and encouraging comments. I feel so lucky to be part of this community. And I can hardly believe all that I learned from writing every day! Well, that is a blog post for another day. Happy Slicing!

March Slice of Life Story Challenge: Day 30 of 31 / To My Cousin, Whom I Miss Very Much

To My Cousin, Whom I Miss Very Much

Last night, I dreamed of my cousin. It felt as if she is still walking this earth with us. There has been so much death this past year, but so much life too. The juxtaposition of the two has been surreal, but yet nothing could be more real than birth and death. So today, I will write to my cousin.

Dear Cousin,

I have so many memories of you from when we were growing up. One in particular is when you would line up the younger cousins and do our hair. Your bangs were amazing! They were truly gravity-defying. Oh man, you looked so cool. One afternoon at Grandma's house, you announced it was hair time.

"We have to do something about your bangs, all of you," you said to us cousins. You fired up your curling iron. As it heated, we could smell the old Aquanet and singed hair that remained stuck to it, remnants of many hairdos past. Finally, the curling iron beeped its readiness.

"OK, Anna first," you said. I went over to where you were standing by the bureau, and you got to work. You separated my bangs into two layers, then sprayed both with a healthy mist of Aquanet. You curled the bottom pieces under, so they looked like a giant tube. You curled the top pieces up, another giant tube, then you teased them a bit with you fingers until  they were standing straight up. You fluffed out the rest of my hair, applied a bit of lip gloss on me, and pronounced, "Voila!"

I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked grown up. Ready for a trip to the mall to go meet boys. I looked like you.

Thank you for being a huge part of my coming of age, of my understanding what it means to be a woman. I watched everything you did, and I wanted to be just like you. You were the coolest ever. And then things changed for you, and it was so sad. You became a shadow of yourself. And then you died. But I want you to know how much you affected me, all of us. And I want you to know I love you. I hope you are at peace.

Love,
Anna

March Slice of Life Story Challenge: Day 29 of 31 / Sydney

Sydney

Perhaps because of yesterday's encounter, Sydney is so strongly in my thoughts today. Living there feels so fresh, so vivid. Though Sydney is on the other side of the world from where I am now, there are places in New York, my own city, that feel more remote. I can't quite believe that I can't just hop on the subway and end up in Elizabeth Bay, our Sydney home.

Join me as I go for a walk in our neighborhood.

I take a look outside our kitchen window at the bay beyond. Sailboats dot the harbor and birds zip this way and that through tropical trees. A few puffy clouds float through a warm, blue sky.

I walk out of our building and past the cluster of bird of paradise growing outside. I walk past a lush city park with a koi pond and a view of the ocean and up a tall set of stairs to a bustling street. I stop by a cafe for a flat white and sip it luxuriously as I stroll.

I descend down another set of tall stairs to a wharf neighborhood. I keep an eye out for Russell Crowe, one of the tenants of the ritzy condos on the docks. I walk across a pier and I watch the water swirling over the sand and rocks below.

I walk up a hill and into a side entrance to the Sydney Botanic Gardens, where I'm greeted by screeching Macaws and swooping lorikeets; prickly, Dr. Seuss trees and clusters of fruit bats, resting for the night's excursion around the city.

I continue through the gardens, and at the end of the path, I am greeted by a wide open bay and the white sails of the Opera House floating in the distance.

I walk around the bay and up the steps of the Opera House. I take it all in - the gardens sprawling before me, the ferries shuttling into Circular Quay, the perfect arc of the Harbour Bridge spanning it all.

I walk down the steps and get ready to head home. Yes, just another stroll in the neighborhood.

Sometimes I miss Sydney so much my heart aches. Funny, considering I spent the first half of my time there desperately homesick for New York. But Sydney will always be a part of me, a part of my family. It's where my husband and I first set up our home. One day, I hope to live there again with our son. For now, I carry it with me all the time, hoping to find the kind of beauty we had there again. Thank you Sydney, for being our paradise for a little while. 

March Slice of Life Story Challenge: Day 28 of 31 / Accents

Accents

Christy and I are standing in the middle of a gift shop, listening to an incredibly thorough description of a line of baby toys. 

"The wood is sustainable, the paint is non-toxic, and the packaging is recycled," says the salesperson. 

As she talks, I am listening, but I am also scrutinizing her accent. I'm not certain, but I think I detect the high-vowels and the back-of-the-tongue tones of a South African accent, one of my absolute favorites. The salesperson is now talking about the developmental appropriateness of the toys' components, but I am transported to a time, when I was living in Sydney, and I first started to be able to distinguish the Australian accent from the New Zealander, the British from the Irish.

We leave the shop (after I bought several toys, of course), and Christy wonders if the accent was Australian and says she wanted to ask. This also makes me think of Sydney, when I couldn't go anywhere without being asked where I was from. Even when I had lived there for a few months, and then a year, and then more, I still was asked where I was from. And I always would be asked this, as long as I lived there. Even though I worked there and payed taxes and rent and commuted on the train and went jogging past the Opera House. I can't blame people for asking. I sound like an American. There, I sounded like a foreigner. Just like the salesperson today sounds like a foreigner here, and always will. 

But because I was once the foreigner trying to make a life in another country, I think I know how she feels. I think she probably doesn't want to be asked once again where she is from. I think she doesn't want to explain she isn't, in fact, British, even though to the American ear everything with a slight lilt sounds British. I think she probably doesn't want to tell the story once again of what she is doing here, slightly defensively, as if she has to have a good reason. And so, I am glad we listened to her expertise, and we left without asking, and that we became people who treated her like a really knowledgable salesperson working at a toy shop instead of a really knowledgeable foreigner working in America.

March Slice of Life Story Challenge: Day 27 of 31 / Wishes and Thanks

Wishes

I wish I didn't get snippy with my dad about making the pancakes.
I wish I got him that plate of dessert he wanted with a smile.
I wish I didn't let that con-artist sublet my apartment.
I wish I didn't lose that ring.
I wish I had told my cousin how much she meant to me.
I wish we didn't buy this house.
I wish I met my husband ten years earlier.
I wish I had my son ten years earlier.

Thankful

I'm thankful I had so many lovely breakfasts with my dad.
I'm thankful for all those family events with my dad.
I'm thankful for the valuable lessons I've learned about trusting strangers in New York City.
I'm thankful I had that ring while I did.
I'm thankful for the time I had with my cousin.
I'm thankful we had the opportunity to turn an old house into a beautiful home.
I'm thankful I met my husband.
I'm thankful I have my son.

Yep, the second one feels better.

March Slice of Life Story Challenge: Day 26 of 31 / Road Trips and a Mentor Text

Slicing together is like being in an online writers' group. I love getting inspiration from others' posts. Today, fellow Slicer and Blogger Fran McVeigh inspired me to write about a childhood memory. 

Her technique, delving into her past, reminded me of an exersize Ralph Fletcher led during his keynote at last summer's Writing Insititue at the Teachers College Reading and Writing Project. He invited us to mentor ourselves using his poem, The Good Old Days.

Then, he asked us to copy only the first and last stanzas, and fill in the rest with our own memories.  Here is what I wrote:

Sometimes I remember
The good old days

Running through the cornfields
The sharp leaves stinging our legs

Chasing the fireflies
As they twinkled a rhythm in the sky

Sucking the sweet drop of nectar
That came from the end of a flower 

Curling up in a heap
Our bodies giving out much sooner than our plans

I still can't imagine
anything better than that. 

Today, I am going to revisit this strategy. One mark of a good writing mentor is that you can return to it again and again, with fresh eyes, each time taking away something different.

Here is today's poem:


Road Trips

Sometimes I remember
The good old days

Drives across the country
With dad

Counting mile markers
And red cars

Hearing stories
Of days long ago in the city

Pit stops
In forgotten little towns

Eight hundred miles
Just us

To him,
being the most important person in the world

I still can't imagine
anything better than that.

March Slice of Life Story Challenge: Day 25 of 31 / No One Does it Like Mommy

No One Does it Like Mommy

Will I ever be comfortable with the way in which others care for my child?

I am working in my office, and our babysitter is with my son.
I am supposed to be working, but instead I'm scrutinizing every
squeal
shriek
cry
giggle
gurgle
rattle
squeak.
Is he ok?
Does he need me?
Why isn't he napping?
Did he eat enough?
Why is the TV on?

It gets easier, right?