Mommy read a story
to help me rest today
about a cow who
jumped over the moon
Was that you?
Did you bring me
some cheese
and bring back
the dish and spoon?
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Trifecta’s weekend challenge is to write 33 words only using the above picture as our muse.
Emma sat watching people pass. “I love it here, Richard. Do you remember the night we first came to the Mall? We walked and walked. How I loved the way you twirled your cane. You made me feel like a queen the way you treated me, taking my arm so I wouldn’t fall into the Reflecting Pool. Oh, I loved you then, Richard. I love you still.â€
Emma stood and walked to the Wall, rubbing Richard’s name etched there. She patted the letters, a tear coursing down her cheek as she placed a carnation at the base of the wall.
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On this Flag Day I salute the men and women who gave their lives for our freedom. According to The Wall online the first American soldier killed in the Vietnam War was Air Force T-Sgt. Richard B. Fitzgibbon. This is a fictional piece written to honor him and those who followed.
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for Velvet Verbosity’s challenge: Reflecting.
The paperboy was my savior when I was about four years old. We lived on Punta Alley in the north end of Columbus, Ohio. An empty used car lot anchored one end and the railroad tracks anchored the other end of the street. A row of attached houses (nowadays called by the prettied-up name of four-plexes or condos) lined the south side and a brick wall lined the north side.
Back in those days kids played outside – a lot – especially when moms and dads were having “discussionsâ€. You know the saying that “little pitchers have big earsâ€.
I did not have a puppy of my own, so I played with the ones in the alley. The day I was saved by the paperboy one of the puppies had cornered me and was attacking me, not allowing me to get back to my house. The paperboy came along at just the right time to ward off the attack with large rocks and pieces of bricks.
My mother came out about that time to see what the ruckus was all about. It was not until then that I realized my puppy was really a large rat. I had been in serious danger.
I received a few swats that night, but they were generously interspersed with grateful, teary hugs as well. The paperboy was rewarded with thanks and hugs, and likely a plate of cookies.
To this day I do not like rodents of any kind. (I didn’t care for the movie or the song Ben, either) I am also not a dog person. Funny how such things color our lives.
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This week our trusty Trifecta twosome (miss you, David) have challenged us with the third definition of alley.
I am connected to two sets of threes. My grandmother – Lida True LeForge was a writer. My mother, Winona Evelyn Ward was a writer. I am third in that line. I am supported by the gift of these two important women.
Grandma was a politically savvy “Gray Panther†who wrote witty poetry. She snarked about youth; our music and our lack of manners (it was the 60s). She complained about how elders were treated and wrote of the foibles of new technology. (Color tv! Commercials!)
Mom was a deep thinker. She wrote of Persephone, of love and joyous things. She wrote a love letter to my older sister, Judith, who only lived two days. She told my younger sister and me stories upon stories. We asked for them over and over. I wish I could remember them now.
I anchor that trio. I have written of poignant memories and loves; pages of slam poetry with arrows aimed toward the political scenes of bygone (current) years. I have written reams of very bad, icky poetry . . . and some better than that.
More importantly, I foster two more writers: going back up the ladder – the second set of three, with me as the anchor – are my oldest daughter, Lessa and her oldest daughter, Peppermist.
Lessa writes lovely things; thought provoking, snarky, sometimes wistful poetry. She writes stories that make me think – make me cry – and help me love. I want to be just like her when I grow up.
Peppermist shares her mother’s snarky wit. She loves beyond LOVE the people who surround her. She writes of teenaged angst with a heart and soul much wiser than her years. She is growing into a lovely young woman and carrying on the family genetic bent of writing.
We have different styles – but we all carry the one thing that rounds out each familial trifecta group: we love. We love hard, we love long, and we love forever.
We write lest we forget.
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The Trifextra Challenge this weekend in the words of the editors: This weekend we are asking for a bit of your memoirs. We want a real account of a period in your life that can be clearly identified by (wait for it) the number three.
These are my words . . . where are yours?