WA1 Draft 2

I ran into the kitchen with only the thought of being on time in my mind. Yelling franticly in way only a selfish pre-adolescent child could, “Come on, let’s go! I’m ready, let’s go!”

My mom wasn’t in the kitchen. I didn’t notice anyone until I was already stepping out of the doorway. Kevin, my mother’s sister’s husband, was slumped against the wall of my kitchen like a drunk who had no place to go. He whispered to me in a voice that sounded as if he did not have a throat.

“Do you want to see something Madeline?”

I looked at him in distaste (I couldn’t stand his presence); until I noticed that he was holding something in his arms. My demeanor immediately changed, and I was suddenly overflowing with happiness, salutations, and questions.

“Is that him?” I asked, not absorbing his pallid skin and inability to move. He looked blankly at me, as if he was staring across a foggy abyss, and opened a paper towel that I had mistaken for a blanket. Time sped up and slowed down.

When I opened my eyes I was doubled over, nauseous and dizzy, unprepared for the second wave of cold, swooping sick that would hit me within moments. Crawling away from the picture stuck in my mind, until the empathy turned to rage, and I found my footing long enough to stumble out of the house, slamming the door in an unconscious attempt to punish him for what he’d done.

How many minutes or hours passed before I found my mother I have no idea. I lay beneath a tree in my front yard until I saw her walk up the driveway. I ran to her, angry confused tears leaking from my eyes, and my voice hysterical.

“Do you know what he did to me? What I saw?” Shaking uncontrollable, my voice and eyes bore the resentment I thought I felt. Punish him. I wanted to scream until my throat was raw and I was coughing up blood. My mom took me into her arms and cried with me. My anger ebbed as my tears flowed into sorrow.

At the time, I was separated from everyone else by a blanket of youth. Now I know the whole story: My mom had been forced to deliver her sisters still born on our kitchen floor because her sister wouldn’t go to the hospital until her husband arrived, too late. Naively seeking refuge in my mothers’ arms, I can only hope I unknowingly comforted her as much as she comforted me.

We gathered in a forest on a hill, standing in circle around a rock with a blanket on it. I was across from Aurora, who had been pregnant. Kevin (the horrible, the exposer of pain) said words, but they were barely introductory. I could only pay attention to his hands, which were unwrapping the blanket to reveal the face and body I had seen in my kitchen. A red face, with closed eyes and a mouth frozen in an O. Arms outstretched, but limp. At that moment, everything besides that baby faded, and I couldn’t take it. I hid myself into my mom for the rest of the unconventional ceremony.

Even though I shielded my face, I can’t stop the images of that day from flooding my mind upon association. Auroras sallow skin that hung from her gaunt face like a prisoner of war. Kevin’s inability to speak. A red baby exposed and unmoving on a rock. Even after all these years, I still don’t understand why Kevin showed me he-who-would-have-been-Isaac with a backdrop of blue green linoleum. Now I realize it’s impossible to say it was intentionally malicious, or malicious at all. Although his eyes have been slowly filling back up with life, on the rare occasion that I meet them, I find myself 12 years old again, staring at the reflection of death in its tiniest form. Out of his mind with grief, I was selfish to think he could feel anything but numbing misery.

WA1 Draft 1

Running into the kitchen and yelling in way only a selfish pre adolescent child could, “Come on lets GO, I’m ready lets GO! My mom wasn’t in the kitchen. I didn’t notice anyone until I was already stepping out of he doorway. My sort of uncle, (mothers sisters husband) slumped against the wall of my kitchen whispered to me in a voice that sounded as if he did not have a throat. “Do you want to see something Madeline?” I looked at him in distaste, (I couldn’t stand his presence) until I noticed that he was holding something in his arms. My demeanor immediately changed, and I asked him enthused “Is that him?” blah blah babbling on cheerfully, not absorbing his pallid skin and inability to move. He looked blankly at me, as if he was staring across a smoky cavern thing (cavernous?), and opened a paper towel that I had mistaken for a blanket. time sped up, or slowed down. when I opened my eyes I was doubled over, nauseous and dizzy, unprepared for the second wave of cold, swooping sick that would hit me within moments. crawling away from the picture stuck in my mind, until the empathy turned to rage, and I found my footing long enough to stumble out of the house, slamming the door in an unconscious attempt to punish him for what he’d done.

We gathered in a forest on a hill, standing in circle around a rock with a blanket on it. I was across from Aurora, the aunt who almost became more. Kevin (the horrible, the exposer of pain) said words, but they were barely introductory. I could only pay attention to his hands, which were unwrapping the blanket to reveal the face and body I had seen in my kitchen. A red face, with closed eyes and a mouth frozen in an O. Arms outstretched, but limp. At that moment, everything besides that baby faded, and I couldn’t take it. I hid myself into my mom for the rest of the unconventional ceremony.

Even though I shielded my face, I can’t stop the images of that day from flooding my mind upon association. Auroras sallow skin that hung from her gaunt face like a prisoner of war. Kevin’s inability to speak. A red baby exposed on a rock. Even after all these years, I still don’t understand why he showed me he who would have been Isaac with a backdrop of blue green linoleum. Now I realize it’s impossible to say it was intentionally malicious, or malicious at all. Although his eyes have been slowly filling back up with life, on the rare occasion that I meet them, I find myself 12 years old again, staring at the reflection of death in its tiniest form. Out of his mind with grief, I was selfish to think he could feel anything but numbing misery.