[Fiction-writing* practice] For one more day

What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step. ~ C.S. Lewis

It’s all a beautiful mess. ~ Danielle Laporte | Instagram | March, 2012

She was feeling the same old resistance again, along with the the mild disappointment of writing in blue ink.

He forgot to get the Uniball Signo 207 pens. Black.  Only black.  How hard was that to remember?  To read off of the short list of 12 items?  How hard is it to do for one who asks for so little?  She complained a lot.  She caught herself going into the self-pitying places.  She caught herself just before jumping off the edge and stopped.
She remembers dinner the night before.  Remembers the dull white of the carbohydrates on the blue and white ceramic plates.  The IKEA bowl is filled with beef stew in red tomato sauce, vegetables hidden – chopped cremini mushrooms, processed broccoli and celery stalks seasoned with turmeric powder.  She remembers to take out the lemons from the fridge to squeeze on the kids’ fruit tomorrow.  She must avoid the browning of those perfectly sweet, organic apples from Walmart.  She must remember to give them their full doses of Vitamin C on these cold winter days.  The Thermos bags remain smelly.  She decides they’re bearable for another couple of days.
She worries about the self-cleaning oven, the one that always threatens to burn the kitchen down.  She frowns at that bully of an oven lock that holds in the over door hostage and only lets it go after two hours, three if she’s obsessing.
It is morning again.  She likes to twirl her freshly shampooed, Conair-curled hair around her left index finger while she writes.  Hair finally manageable after a decade of stressing over how to get the thick, black, unruly hair in place.  Ben, her Ricky Reyes salon stylist since her teenage years intermittently complimented and complained before every single show.  Always in one lush breath, “It’s so makapaaaaaal!  It’s taking me soooo long!  I wish I had your hair, ‘dai!!!  You’re so laaaaacky!” always ending these swishy declarations with a toss of imaginary long hair off his thin padded shoulders.
She snaps out of the reverie and turns to her son sitting across from her at the breakfast table.  He’s home with a cough, eleven now and growing bigger, wider, chubbier around the waist.  He’s gotten fuller in those pink cheeks with the darling peach fuss.  Soon the non-moustache will become darker, she imagines.  She notices the crumpled red and black cotton shirt, the one that says No Fear on the chest.  The flat iron and board are neglected in the spare room in basement, never used in all the five years they’ve been living in suburbia except for that one time when the borrowed pink piña shawl needed to be starched to a crisp for the Fiesta Filipino concert last June.  Those need to be returned to their rightful owner, she tells herself guiltily.  She remembers how she’s forgotten for almost half a year now.  She remembers how she’s forgotten how much of a decade’s worth of worthless things are still in the over-stuffed cellars, storage rooms and mice-infested garage.  She vows to let everything go this spring.  All of it.  2012 is the full spring-cleaning year and she recommits with resolve.  She momentarily doubts this will all get done…without hiring outside help.
It is ten thirty in the morning now.  She decides to walk over to her office, the blue benches by the man-made lake across the street.  This loon-filled reservoir has the power to calm the crazy loonie-minded mother-of-three living under the forty four year old dry, flaky, winter-weather beaten skin.

She was spent but happy after the walk, ecstatic even, after photographing some more geese, gulls and taking in the wide, open spaces.  She is tired but will not be able to rest much, not today, because after clearing the morning’s clutter in the kitchen, doing a load of laundry and folding while watching the Ellen Show and a quick lunch of a chicken sandwich with humus and sugar snapped peas thrown in the mix, the 2:45pm alarm will be quacking to pick up the kids. 

She opts for the smell of fresh-baked Pilsbury croissants and chocolate chip cookies to clean her cluttered home for one more day.  She joyfully serves this to her own hungry birds after she gives them their lunch of chicken alfredo pasta.   Kitchen Helpers are called helpers for a good reason. 
A quick gulp of caffeine from a can of Coke Zero momentarily heals her sagging spirit.  She smiles at the irony of how a zero-calorie drink with pseudo-sweet black-gold poison is able to fill her hollowed soul.
On the walk to the school, the second one for the day in the sun-drenched frozen-solid stretch of street, she quietly marvels at how a thirty-minute morning walk and bird-watching early in the day is able to revive a life.  For one more day.  She says a quiet prayer of thanks over how a thirty-minute long distance phone call can save her messy kitchen, her midday meal and consequently her mood.  For one more day.  She finds the grace of gratitude softly landing, finally arriving and she smiles.  For one more day.
She takes another deep, full breath.  For one clear moment, this calms her million-mile per hour mind.
For one more day.

Near-sighted/Far-sighted | Instagram | March 8, 2012
Courage in creativity,
Chiqui | “instasahm” on Instagram

*or is it now?  😉

3 thoughts on “[Fiction-writing* practice] For one more day

  1. well-written. the narrative unfolds before the reader despite the different events and thoughts into one clear image of "one more day".especially this part: She remembers how she’s forgotten how much of a decade’s worth of worthless things are still in the over-stuffed cellars, storage rooms and mice-infested garage.:)

  2. i've been drawn into your fiction's persona. it's like i'm reading a page from my own life. and the photos have their own silent messages, too.good work. i hope to read more!Conniehttp://open.conniesnotebook.com

  3. Hello, beatburn and Connie!I appreciate your dropping by very much. ^_^Mommy C, words like yours help me see that I'm finally breaking through in my writing…pulling away from the 'What I Did Last Summer' essay stylings we were taught as kids in school and getting cozy with "Just Tell The Truth" way of writing. So thank you for that! Scary as the option to be vulnerable is, as my favorite shero Dr. Brene Brown said, it truly is the seed of real connection! Salamat muli for konekting. 😉 C.

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