Friday, November 29, 2013

Prompt #65




The box itself is cardboard – but a lively print decorates it’s surface to fool perspective buyers.  

Spread over the contents is a plastic bag that once held a trinket I bought in Gettysburg.  The trinket is gone, but the bag with colored pictures and words remains.

There is a stack of letters tied in ribbon.  I haven’t rid myself of them yet.  They are too heavy with memories for me to lift.

There is a dried daisy chain that always makes me smile.  She was so good at making these, then looping them around her friend’s heads.  Entwining hearts and weeds in one fluid motion.

Driftwood yes, from a beach I’ve forgotten.  How lucky I am to visit them often enough for them to run together in my mind.

A string of yellow beads, yellow being my favorite color once.  A thoughtful gift that lasted longer than the obsession of youthfulness.

These all tell of a little girl, pieces from her life.  She was innocent, happy, pure.  But those days are gone, forever perhaps.  Someday someone might come and put that sweet spirit back where it was before.  Not all of these things can be erased, the ocean breeze, the thoughts that accompany yellow.   Pieces, small and insignificant, but they are the pieces of a whole.

4 comments:

  1. "Entwining hearts and weeds in one fluid motion."

    Nice stand-out line.

    "...the thoughts that accompany yellow."

    That's even better.

    "Pieces, small and insignificant, but they are the pieces of a whole."

    Intended or not, that line sets up reverberations in a reader. We keep wanting it to read "parts of a whole" and rewrite it mentally, and then realize that, no, "pieces" is the right word, first and last, and that the repetition is 'plangent,' a rarish word that you might apply to a lot of your stuff.

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  2. It is a rare word, so rare that I got three meanings: resounding, lamenting, and melancholy. The dictionary said it was like the sounding of a bell.

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  3. Sounding of a bell was what I was thinking, but a soft bell, not a resounding one--an echoing, lamenting, and melancholy tone. But without ever getting maudlin.

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  4. That's good. I'd hate to think that I get all foolish with the melancholy tones of my writing. I think that having "melancholy" in your writer's arsenal is useful, but not if it gets whiny.

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