I didn’t read the warning,
in fact, I kinda forgot it was there,
and I microwaved my head.
My brain exploded.
It’s still squeezing out my nose
and ear canals
three hours later.
I think I may have irradiated my eyeballs too.
I’m seeing things
like unicorns and rainbows
and warning signs.
In fact, I think I’m beginning to see sound.
I suppose I should’ve read
the instructions on the bottom of the coffee cup
and not singed my eyebrows
or given myself brain cancer
and superhero powers.
I suppose I should’ve paid attention.
I write lists of adjectives in an attempt to describe the color of the wood of the kitchen table when the afternoon sun hits it just before dinner. I write word after word, noun after noun. I write letters on pages, filling more notebooks than anyone has hopes of ever fully reading. I write because I cannot articulate the world through any other means. I write because my tongue does not have fingers with which I could describe the tilt of a woman’s chin when she is bent over an oil painting. I write phrases and idioms and clichés across the whiteboards of my classrooms, trying to make sense of how a scribble in black ink could carry such meaning. I write poems about the way the sand feels between my teeth when I swallow seawater accidently at the beach. I write because though the grains of sand may be stuck in my gums no one else can see them. I write to bring the invisible into the visible. I write when I cannot see. I write when I can see too much.
Inspired by Terry Tempest William‘s Essay “Why I Write.”
- His ex wife’s phone number
- The father’s day card his ten year old son made him
- His plumbing license
Things my father doesn’t post on his fridge:
- Pictures of his daughter
Micro essay for my CNF class.
I’m sorry I didn’t know that blanket doesn’t go on the floor
I’m sorry I didn’t put the cap back on the pen
I’m sorry I folded your shirts wrong
I’m sorry I closed the door too slow
I’m sorry I never put my toothbrush in the right place
I’m sorry I didn’t make your pasta right
I’m sorry I wear my socks two or three days in a row
I’m sorry I used the wrong nail clippers
I’m sorry I borrowed your coat
I’m sorry I left my clothes on the floor
I’m sorry I sat in the seat not facing the entrance
I’m sorry I used your hairbrush without asking
I’m sorry I washed your ears with soap
I’m sorry I use highlighters the wrong way
I’m sorry I am not doing better
I’m sorry I am wrong so often
I’m sorry I don’t understand all the time
I’m sorry I don’t ask more questions
I’m sorry I don’t say I love you more often.
I leaned my arm back, twisting as if it were attached to a rusting mechanical gear, till my shoulder burned and squirmed unhappily. The ocean spray lept from where it had collided with the side of the boat, splashing my face in a reminder that I needed to be quick. We had only a few seconds at best. My eyes closed, and I whispered under my breath.
“I wish for my mom to finally be happy.”
I released the tension in my arm and it sprang forward, flinging the copper coin that had been resting in my palm towards to the underside of the great looming bridge above us.
Done for my Creative Nonfiction Class. Prompt was to write a happy memory showing tension in under 125 words.