Thanks to Bikurgirl for hosting One- Hundred – Word Wednesday.
The frost on the grass is a warning; it heralds winter’s time. It’s sunny and bright walking outside in the late morning, yet I can feel the bitter chill of the snow storm approaching, numbing my skin
There’s a distinct bitterness in the air and it tastes like freshly fallen snow that doesn’t melt, but freezes your tongue. It’s a nip of coldness which makes you shiver long after you’re snuggled by the warmth of the fire indoors.
I know by night, the great pines and paved trail will be frozen and covered in cotton mounds. The frost will becomes a blanket of white remaining until spring seeps into the frozen north.
Shane’s bedroom felt empty and cold, as if every bit of warmth and life had been sucked out of it. It was hard for Kristen to believe, only a few hours ago, her darling boy had been rolling around on his blanket.
One minute Shane had been gurgling and laughing as he held his ABC’s book on his blanket and the next he had fallen asleep peacefully on his back.
Except, Kristen thought, tears streaming down her face, Shane never woke up. Kristen thought Shane was still asleep but when she touched his tiny body he wasn’t breathing; she called 911 hurriedly.
A kindly EMT, Patrick, comforted Kristen.”There is nothing you could have done that would have saved Shane. We don’t know a lot about why babies die from SIDS in their sleep.” Patrick added.
“Still, I should have paid better attention to him . . .” Kristen sobbed.
Patrick looked at Kristen and held her hand.” You’re a parent Kristen and you’re human. You did the best you could,“nothing, especially taking care of a baby, “is ever as easy as it looks.” Parents have no control when a baby dies suddenly so please don’t blame yourself. Grieve, and if you like, have the courage to be a Mother again.
Let me paint a picture for you: I am in the living room at home. The walls are seashell beige on the wall opposite of me where there is a grand picture window with wispy white see-through curtains. Behind me the wall is a darker beige, with a slight green tinge to it. To the right is a corner cabinet in oak, furniture my Uncle built, displaying a few trinkets. Beside the corner cabinet to the left is a side-table stained in a darker wood with a butter yellow corrugated place mat on it. Beside it is a deep dark red-orange sofa with a sheet covering the seat and back. The sheet is off white with brown and copper leaves. In front of the coach is a french provincial coffee table with a cream runner on top. The left corner of this coach is usually where I sit and write. It is quite comfortable, a place to sink into words.
The side table is where I pile various textbooks I’m using for school: Furniture in History 3000 BC – 2000 AD, and papers about applying for a Masters in Fine Arts. There is a little leaf green binder for portion sizes of food you eat; I try to follow the guide. It’s from when I was doing Herbal Magic. There are tabs of varied colours you can write on to make a divider for your binder or mark a chapter in the textbook. There is lip chap, pens of blue and black, paper clips, and a binder for my Furnishing’s Course –thick with printed out slides and notes. In front of me is the IKEA catalogue. And to the left of me a framed vertical drawing of a bench and buildings in Ottawa, it’s matting is forest green. There is a lamp that’s tall with a cream lamp shade, providing light to me as I write on my lap top. I am resting my right arm on a multicolored brown, orange and red pillow, a muted knitted purple blanket covers my legs. Usually it’s nice and quiet during the day, everyone is at work. But lately, there is a loud truck across the street and it runs and makes the most horrible rumbling sounds. I’m trying to ignore it and I can’t do anything about it. But I wish the people would hurry up and leave already or get their truck fixed.
I’m burning a candle on the coffee table it smells like heavenly vanilla, I love that smell. And I just keep on writing. I wish I had a quiet room with a desk and a comfortable leather chair to sit in, where I was looking out the window at the river valley full of orange and red in Autumn. A place I couldn’t hear this rumbling noise, it’s like a tractor. But you write where you write and create your “room of your own” wherever you can find the space. This will do for now.
You have to write a message to someone dear to you, telling that person how much he/she means to you. However — instead of words, you can only use 5-10 objects to convey your emotions. Which objects do you choose, and what do they mean?
You are my toastiest, most comfy blanket keeping my heart warm for you though you are far away.
You are the sweet and softly spiced perfume you created for me, a taste of Morocco and your love that I wear at my pulse points.
You are a chunky bracelet you bought for me one birthday, the shiny lucite and glass in geometric simplicity, like the jewelry you wear yourself, now I wear it to.
You are that wonderful Lebanese spice that we coat chicken in, a meal we shared together with cooked vegetables and salad in that special ranch dressing.
You are the number 008, the digits I type to allow you to let me into your place, my second home, and wonderful aromas greet me at the door.
You are an Armani Exchange T-shirt, your most loved brand at a store we stop at almost every time we shop at WEM, to add to your collection another shirt.
You are red sheets, the ones I bought for you, your favourite colour and a softness I come home to when I sleep at your place.
You are a bottle of Perrier, fizzy water, and just right, to taste a bit of soda in a healthy way, it represents how fit you are, how you care about your body.
You are the eyelashes on your deep brown eyes, eyes that see every part of me, and love me just the way I am — giving butterfly kisses with those eyelashes I feel adored in every way.
You are your iPhone, it’s how we maintain our connection, though you are way up North working, you are right next to me in every call, in every text message — we are never apart.