the book part 2
Writing is important.
It draws people in
Demands their full attention
Spoken words can be powerful, but they ring out in vibration and eventually become lost in the roar of highway cars and the click of tiny keypads.
Written words are permanent, they can never be fully erased.
Even when thrown in the flame, they become dust and mingle around our being, then in stillness settle at our feet
PART 2 the HOLE
We lived in a green siding house on the corner,
It was a rental, and on late evenings Mum cried and Dad would shout about being in the hole.
I was puzzled.
Holes were dark and scary, our little place was a bright green with a cement block out front.
That block was our stage.
Dad brought us home new dress up clothes and we put on a show.
There was a garden in the back, down a grassy slope.
The perefect sized tobogganing slope for toddlers in the winter.
The garden was small and thriving. It grew carrots, legumes, rhubarb and tomatoes. On hot summer’s days Mum and I would eat the fresh peas right off the vine. Dad made pickles from cucumbers and I marveled at how the flavour went from soft and plain, to a nose scrunching bite.
We were schooled in that home, and we slipped out at break to eat Popsicles in the sun.
This place was not a hole.
This was the place where a prayer was changed and then a prayer was answered.
We sat on the bottom step, of the staircase in our home. Mum and I, and I told her…
I could not ask for a baby girl,
so I changed my prayer
and in a months time, Mum and Dad called us together at the dining room table.
J squirmed and N looked bored, I tried not to sit on my knees in those blue chairs we owned.
The ones from an old restaurant, will the vinyl puffy seats. They had nails that stuck out below the vinyl. They were sharp on your knees.
Parents spoke, words came together in sentences, and my tiny eyes lifted, the boys hooted and hollered.
A baby boy, a brother. We were having a baby.