A million Christmases ago – which translates into 2, except 2020 counts for at least 10 years, so it could’ve been 12 – my kids gave me a great gift. It was a book of writing prompts. I shrieked with delight. “They really do get me,” I shouted. Talking about things in one’s wheelhouse, this was exactly what I’d been looking for. Believe it or not, it can be difficult to come up with a weekly topic for a newspaper column. I run into readers, hither and yon, who only like certain topics or who only dislike certain topics. While I wish I could appeal to everyone on a personal level, it takes everything I have to crank out words that halfway make sense while editing for typos (not my forte), editing for autocorrect mishaps (I often speak-write if the idea is so intense I fear I might lose it), and editing for size (brevity is not my strong suit). But a book of prompts, why that should get my noggin in tip top shape. Except, like all things that initially excite us but require a surrender of sorts, the book went to the wayside of daily life. This year, though, within the complete, the partial, and the sometimes quarantines, the unwillingness to leave a puppy prone to seizures, and the reorganization into a multi-generational home, I find that time is finally on my side. And, so, I dug out that book of writing prompts. It’s really, really good. So, today I bring you an introspective question of sorts, right from the source. “Name one thing you wish your cell phone did for you that it currently does not.” Whoomp, there it is.
In 1998, my eldest son was 12. He played a mean trombone. He loved having the hair on his crown died platinum blonde. He was really into things like rollerblading, shark tooth necklaces, and drawing dream catchers. He drew some amazing dream catchers. I want my phone to time travel for me. Siri, FaceTime Dillan in 1998, please. I desperately need to see him before he took his first born level 100 willpower and started jogging with weights and refusing to drink sodas – back when there was still the slightest chub in his sweet face and back before the neighborhood dog bite scar on his forehead (that looked like the state of Texas) grew back into his hairline. Can I hear his voice when it was starting to crack and he had a tendency to talk too fast and stutter the tiniest bit? I need to see his downturned eyes that, still, are the most startling blue. Show me your dreams, boy. Let me help you catch them. You don’t have to be so strong.
In 2008, my middle wild child was 18. His sister had just up and died on him and he didn’t quite know where to turn. He refused to return to the school for the remaining 6 weeks of his senior year. He took the persuasion that only a cuddly middle child can summon and convinced an entire day’s worth of teachers to give him a passing grade. While he was at it, he conned his counselor into donating to his “Daniel needs a commemorative tattoo of his sister” campaign. Siri, call my boy in 2008, please. I need to look at the face that looked just like my father at 18. I need to tell him that he is good enough for this world. I need to tell him that he needn’t worry about screwing up his life. He’s going to make the best decisions. Why, in 12 years’ time, he won’t recognize himself, his career path, or the amazing family he will have created. He needs to know that his heart will find a way out of this. Talk to me, son. Lay your 2008 sorrows at my feet now. Let me apologize for being so ill equipped at handling them when you needed me.
Finally, because we all knew where this was going, let’s go back to 2002. When my late daughter was in the 6th grade, she was inducted into the National Junior Honor Society, like so many other studious kiddos. She was elated. Part of the honor was the opportunity to go on a trip to Washington, DC over spring break. I was the typical nervous mom, worried about my baby’s ability to survive without me for so long. I picked her up from the airport, full of souvenir gifts and days of stories, until she realized what she’d done. She’d insisted on taking her prized possession, her late step-grandfather’s pillow, the Uncle Buddy pillow. It had been left behind in Washington. That child bawled for 2 weeks, uncontrollably. Even after I pleaded to the head of the hospitality department at that Dulles Airport hotel and secretly wired them the money to ship that, frankly, disgusting pillow back to me, my daughter never forgave herself for that lapse in attention to detail. Siri, call 6th grade Chynna. I need to see her face, hear her voice just once more, & tell her something very important. She needs to know that, sometimes, I still cry on that pillow. I only wish I could wire someone the money to send my prized possession back to me this time.
Writing prompts are great, eh?
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