This is a short story written by my daughter just this year. As a word of explanation, she is an adult but was able to take the voice of a child, thus the lack of capitalization and punctuation. I offer this explanation only because you don't know her or me really (this is NOT autobiographical).
it was raining outside and since you were downstairs watching your soap opera i went into your room. i lay on your unmade bed and ran my hand across the sheets, which must have been clean once. i stared at the carpet for a long time. i looked at your old dresser, the mirror was cracked. and on the dresser there was a hairbrush full of your blonde hair, a picture of me and a picture of daddy, and a glass angel that your mama gave you and she said you were her angel.
you were going to the grocery store and i wanted to come with you. i wanted to watch you pick up apples and put them back if they were bruised because you knew i wouldn't eat them. i wanted to hear the tone of your voice when you said hello to dorothy who lives up the street; when i heard it i would know you were my mother and i was safe. i wanted to sit in the cart and have you push me up and down the aisles and i would look forward to the day when i would be big enough to push the cart.
i wanted to come with but you said no because you said i was too big to sit in the cart and six is not old enough to know when to keep your mouth shut and would i please stop asking so many damn questions
i looked at you (i didn't cry because you would hit me if i cried) and i knew you didn't care if i had to eat bruised apples and you wouldn't say hello to dorothy and you wouldn't understand the importance of being big enough to push the cart
when you came home i think you didn't understand why your glass angel was shattered in a million pieces all over you and daddy's bed
it was raining outside and since you were downstairs watching your soap opera i went into your room. i lay on your unmade bed and ran my hand across the sheets, which must have been clean once. i stared at the carpet for a long time. i looked at your old dresser, the mirror was cracked. and on the dresser there was a hairbrush full of your blonde hair, a picture of me and a picture of daddy, and a glass angel that your mama gave you and she said you were her angel.
you were going to the grocery store and i wanted to come with you. i wanted to watch you pick up apples and put them back if they were bruised because you knew i wouldn't eat them. i wanted to hear the tone of your voice when you said hello to dorothy who lives up the street; when i heard it i would know you were my mother and i was safe. i wanted to sit in the cart and have you push me up and down the aisles and i would look forward to the day when i would be big enough to push the cart.
i wanted to come with but you said no because you said i was too big to sit in the cart and six is not old enough to know when to keep your mouth shut and would i please stop asking so many damn questions
i looked at you (i didn't cry because you would hit me if i cried) and i knew you didn't care if i had to eat bruised apples and you wouldn't say hello to dorothy and you wouldn't understand the importance of being big enough to push the cart
when you came home i think you didn't understand why your glass angel was shattered in a million pieces all over you and daddy's bed
Comments
Beautifully written, with a real knock-out punch at the end.
Powerful stuff.
Daughter no.1 has inherited her mother's gift.
yeah sure, she really puts herself into the little girl both of you seem to have an eye for overlooked detail in your writings.
I see your sidebar has slipped as mine has, damn blooper.
I'm fake knudsen because I am whats I am.
you know, it reminds me of some joni mitchell lyics.
Wow.
in hindsight, the semicolon was a mistake; i was obsessed with semicolons -- and dashes -- as a teenager.
daughter #1