Mended


"I don't care if is door. Or a window. It's nothing but a thin sliver of chance." Momma perched on the edge of her green recliner, the gaps in the vinyl mended with duct tape. She was always fixing things that way, doctoring arguments and things broken with patches or kisses floated through the air upon a ring of smoke.

I pushed aside the tarp covering the cabin's entrance and stepped into cool mountain air. The tips of the pine needles birthed fat drops of rain. The birdsong was tentative and cautionary.

"You leave me now, you ain't never seeing me again, you hear?"

I headed down the mountain. The rain transitioned from drizzle to downpour. My mother would say it was a sign; brittle bones tossed tossed into the air and falling to the earth to arrange themselves into a pattern of significance that I chose to ignore.


I made a life for myself, a life of paper-cup coffee and croissants, buttery and light. A life without patches and the runes of my mother's life.

I'd just cracked open my fortune cookie when my secretary walked into my office. You will receive good news today.

She handed me a thick yellow envelope and watched me tear it open.

A thin sliver of chance is like a piece of chocolate pie. All it takes is a little bit. I'm proud of you.

My mother had died three years after I'd left, fully aware of her illness. The doctors had spoken to her about chances. She'd tried to patch up her body with herbs and tinctures and incantations spoken by moonlight.

As I had looked forward to the flowering of my own life, I'd neglected the signs of my mother's winter. I'd refused to notice the slowing of her step, the concentration in her speech, her thin and translucent skin.

Not everything can be mended with kisses and duct tape.

But perhaps brittle bones have more power to intone the future than fortune cookies.

As I'm in the process of packing too many boxes, I cheated this week and wrote to two prompts:

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. The word was door.

And...

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, FlamingNyx at http://flamingnyx.wordpress.com gave me this prompt: You take a deep breath and the crisp air that fills your lungs makes it clear that winter is coming. Play with this: Reminisce about the summer that has passed by too fast, the autumn that never was or the imminent winter. You can take it literally or figuratively.

I gave k~ at http://bloggitwrite.blogspot.com this prompt: The surface of all things.




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Writing in the Margins, Bursting at the Seams: Mended

Thursday, May 2, 2013

Mended


"I don't care if is door. Or a window. It's nothing but a thin sliver of chance." Momma perched on the edge of her green recliner, the gaps in the vinyl mended with duct tape. She was always fixing things that way, doctoring arguments and things broken with patches or kisses floated through the air upon a ring of smoke.

I pushed aside the tarp covering the cabin's entrance and stepped into cool mountain air. The tips of the pine needles birthed fat drops of rain. The birdsong was tentative and cautionary.

"You leave me now, you ain't never seeing me again, you hear?"

I headed down the mountain. The rain transitioned from drizzle to downpour. My mother would say it was a sign; brittle bones tossed tossed into the air and falling to the earth to arrange themselves into a pattern of significance that I chose to ignore.


I made a life for myself, a life of paper-cup coffee and croissants, buttery and light. A life without patches and the runes of my mother's life.

I'd just cracked open my fortune cookie when my secretary walked into my office. You will receive good news today.

She handed me a thick yellow envelope and watched me tear it open.

A thin sliver of chance is like a piece of chocolate pie. All it takes is a little bit. I'm proud of you.

My mother had died three years after I'd left, fully aware of her illness. The doctors had spoken to her about chances. She'd tried to patch up her body with herbs and tinctures and incantations spoken by moonlight.

As I had looked forward to the flowering of my own life, I'd neglected the signs of my mother's winter. I'd refused to notice the slowing of her step, the concentration in her speech, her thin and translucent skin.

Not everything can be mended with kisses and duct tape.

But perhaps brittle bones have more power to intone the future than fortune cookies.

As I'm in the process of packing too many boxes, I cheated this week and wrote to two prompts:

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. The word was door.

And...

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, FlamingNyx at http://flamingnyx.wordpress.com gave me this prompt: You take a deep breath and the crisp air that fills your lungs makes it clear that winter is coming. Play with this: Reminisce about the summer that has passed by too fast, the autumn that never was or the imminent winter. You can take it literally or figuratively.

I gave k~ at http://bloggitwrite.blogspot.com this prompt: The surface of all things.




Labels: , ,

19 Comments:

At May 2, 2013 at 8:21 AM , Blogger Ruby Manchanda said...

You write so beautifully

 
At May 2, 2013 at 9:04 AM , Blogger Draug said...

What an lovely and interesting picture you painted with these two characters.

 
At May 2, 2013 at 9:48 AM , OpenID joe2poetry said...

Good piece! Quite sad!

 
At May 2, 2013 at 11:41 AM , Blogger Björn said...

As my father used to say..

Afterwards it's always to late ...

great story

 
At May 2, 2013 at 1:05 PM , Blogger November Rain - k~ said...

I like the dual thoughts about brittle bones/runes that tied together the way this "mother" dealt with her seasons, and the changes that were made. In springtime it often difficult for people to consider winter's drifting into view. You do write well m'Friend, and I always enjoy reading the words you leave behind.
k~

 
At May 2, 2013 at 2:31 PM , OpenID kdillmanjones.com said...

Kisses and duct tape- great line. You capture a lot of the mom in her dialogue. Nice story!

 
At May 2, 2013 at 4:20 PM , Blogger lumdog2012 said...

Thanks for the poignant reminder. My folks are in their 90s. Nice piece of writing.

 
At May 2, 2013 at 4:38 PM , Blogger Jayne Martin said...

This is what you can turn out in between packing boxes?! I just want to shoot myself. As always, lovely work, my friend. We never want to see when the ones we love are fading.

 
At May 2, 2013 at 6:37 PM , Blogger Kelly Garriott Waite said...

Thank you, Ruby.

 
At May 2, 2013 at 6:39 PM , Blogger Kelly Garriott Waite said...

Thanks for reading, Draug!

 
At May 2, 2013 at 6:45 PM , Blogger Kelly Garriott Waite said...

Thank you, Joe!

 
At May 2, 2013 at 6:52 PM , Blogger Kelly Garriott Waite said...

Thank you - I enjoyed your post for today.

 
At May 2, 2013 at 6:52 PM , Blogger Kelly Garriott Waite said...

Thanks for reading. Heading over to read your Scriptic submission for today.

 
At May 2, 2013 at 6:55 PM , Blogger Kelly Garriott Waite said...

Thanks for reading!

 
At May 2, 2013 at 8:32 PM , OpenID jannatwrites said...

I love how you depicted her tendency to mend, both physical items and herself.

 
At May 2, 2013 at 8:42 PM , Blogger paula j said...

This is beautifully written. The tips of the pine needles birthed fat drops of rain. So visual. She was always fixing things that way, doctoring arguments and things broken with patches or kisses floated through the air upon a ring of smoke. Such great words put together so well.

 
At May 3, 2013 at 4:54 AM , Blogger Atreyee said...

This made me tear up Kelly-so well written!Yes when we are young,we tend to overlook these things & follow our own dreams.Funnily,mothers know & understand & they allow us to,without burdening us with their heartaches:-)

 
At May 3, 2013 at 6:04 AM , Blogger kymm said...

This is so sweetly written, it's hardly even sad!

 
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