Past Vignettes

During my master's program I took a class entitled Writing and Teaching Writing. We wrote and remembered how it felt to be truly bad at something. Those emotions are so common to our students and yet are lost on us as teachers. Below is a series of vignettes I wrote about the ice storm we had a few years ago. 

Refugee

A refugee, rather we were a family of refugees. The shivering leg and blue lipped morning brought about the realization that our modern marvels had escaped our constant torture. My frost-bite inducing shower called upon my inner demons to lie aside, idiosyncrasies like my pride and prejudice, my stubbornness, and determination to overcome. These irrational thoughts are utterly inappropriate at 40 degrees. The layering, the packing, the defrosting make way for our trek away from the anti-hell.

Unannounced

A complete communication melt-down in the midst of a frozen tundra disables us from announcing our presence in future tense. Welcomed at the door with vital articles in hand – laptops, homework, dog. We crash the preexisting party to save ourselves from the bitterness that winter rarely brings. Staring into smiles, we mirror back the emotion, yet it is false. As false as the lies you tell your parents in adolescence. Hopefully, it is not as obvious as it feels. Home calls on me, my heart, my mind, my spirit. It wants me back, needs me to tend to its dirt and filth and grime. Needs me to shield it from the synchronized bursting of plumbing and the draining of its cool, wet lifeline. But I am concerned with my own blood, fearing deep inside that it might systematically plug my veins with crimson cubes.

Adopted

Avoiding the necessary, we allow ourselves to be enveloped into a new clan, a new last name. We adopt their schedule, food and nature. We reject thoughts of the outside, for we are whole within their abode. I take on a role fair removed from my will or want, that of the nurturer, the protector, the snuggler.  I find myself holding a man, one who although we are much the same is still not mine.  And despite our attempts, we have not evaded the world for long. It comes for us via voice, a plea to our innermost humanity.

Leary

Treacherous travel before us, we gather again our most prized possessions. We batten the hatches and sail forth through the tunnel of frozen time, her skeletal bones scraping down our sides. The very reason for her destruction reciprocates spurious protection. And time stands still.

Release

Before me, an opportunity to release the building tension in my soul. I transform into a murderer of limb, branch and twig. I massacre the reasons for suffering and displacement. Sore muscles do not slow my thunder. A constant, determined roar erupts from my toes and releases its disparaging effects unto the land. Peace.