»
Main Forums
»
Passions in Prose
»
Turn Back The Clock (First Attempt At A Short Story)
| Passions in Prose |
|
Turn Back The Clock (First Attempt At A Short Story) |
|
|
Honeybee Member Ascendant
since 1999-12-26
Posts 5372Ontario, CANADA 
|
This is my first attempt at writing a fictional short story. I don't have children, I'm only 21, but I'd like to think that I somewhat understand the feeling of having children of my own, and I am currently in university to become a teacher, that's why I wrote this piece  ~TURN BACK THE CLOCK~ A slow, steady rain came down that wintry morning and froze where it fell. By mid afternnon the rain stopped. Lying helpless, like a child in my bed. I look out the window into a crystal world...reminded of that day. The bittersweet tears roll down my smiling cheeks, as I look back into what remains behind. The memories of my children play sweet songs in my mind, ever so priceless those moments are. Remembering..... I had already been a teacher for ten years, my childhood dream. But, your dreams never quite equal the joy of having children of your own. The sun is a little brighter; you even notice the little things that you never thought you would. "Don't step on the cracks of the sidewalk, Mommy, ant live there, you don't wanna hurt 'em, do you?" Jeffy used to always tell me. And, Kate, my sweet little Katie, always bringing home stray kittens with tears in her eyes, "please Mommy, please can we keep her?" How can I say no to a face like that. Besides Katie's evergrowing animal farm, the peanut butter sandwiches that she used to, well...in her own little way make just for me, makes me laugh. A barely there dab of peanut butter, overflowing amounts of jelly and soggy, half-eaten bread, made with love just the way I liked it. When you have children, life is a little more sweeter, it seems so fulfilling, and at the same time so tiring and frustrating. Someday, when my children are grown, the garage won't be full of muddy bicycles, frayed skipping ropes and broken toys. Someday, when the kids are grown, the sink will be free of sticky dishes and the garbage disposal won't choke on bubblegum and GI Joes. Someday, we won't lose the tops to the orange juice container, to the peanut butter and jelly jars, to the ketchup bottle or to the Mr. Bubbles bubble bath. The milk won't be put back almost half empty, with a drop to spare and the walls will be free of crayon marks. Someday, without interruption, I can live more for myself; I can come home after tending to my Kindergarten class without having to answer endless questions, without having to interrupt my nap in front of the television to help with math or spelling homework. I stop myself, through my grumbling, I realize that while I was dying for my children to grow up and move away, I wasn't really living. I look deeply into the eyes of my children, and smile. Perhaps it is possible to stop time, to have them stay young, forever depending on me. I write down every little sweet thing they say and do in my scrapbooks. I take pictures and file them meticulously into photo albums. But, try as I might, I can't make them stay as they are. My children ask with sparkles in their eyes "please Mommy, pleeeeeaaaaassee, can we go outside and play in the snow with our friends?" How can I say no. "Of course you may, but be careful. Katie remember to wear your mittens and Jeffy button your coat, like Mommy taught you." I stare out the window, with little fingerprints stained on the glass, looking at the children who play so freely, laughing. Their laughter...what sweetness ot my ears, as a guilty tear streams down my face, for not appreciating my children earlier. "Was I ever young like that," I think to myself, free of care and responsibility? And there's little Jeffy, his laughter is so fresh. He is sociable, and curious, an open book determined to fill his pages; and in love with everything in life, including his Mom and his dad. The other night he shifted all the toothbrushes around in the Winnie The Pooh holder, and when I scoldingly asked him why he made such a mess, he told me it was because he wanted his toothbrush next to mine. As for my eldest child, Katie, she is very independent, capable, yet, desperate for my approval. She plays make believe with her dolls in the kitchen, in her own little dreamworld, but, checks back often to see that I'm watching. She cackles when her eyes meet mine. Although she is eight years old, she still wants me to pick her up and hold her in my arms. She keeps one delicate hand lightly placed on my chest, while the other plays with the curls of my hair. It's not just their purity that makes this time special. It's mine, it's the way I feel around them, innocent and just as unknowing as they are. I don't know yet if I have taught them the right ways. i don't know if we'll have to borrow from the bank when Katie first attends university. Neither of them is anything right now but a child, which leaves me many years to dream of what will be instead of fretful that they aren't just as I had hoped. I won't worry about retiring, or when Jeffery and Kate are ready to move on. For, along with young children comes frustration, especially in the early months of a child's life, when the nights are long and the days are too. My husband and I wish that Jeffy could turn on his own cartoons on Saturday mornings, and for Katie to make her own breakfast in the morning, but, for now I will not complain. Still peering through the window at the children, my face feels the bitter winter cold. Caught by surprise, I feel a gentle tug at my sweater. Jeffy just looked at me, letting my crying subside. I didn't notice the dirty coat, the barely combed hair, or the single torn shoelace. I saw my little treasure. Realizing that we were late picking Daddy up from work, he softly said something that I would never forget. He came up with what he innocently thought was the perfect solution. A pair of lovely, deep blue eyes looked seriously into mine, "turn back the clock, Mommy, would you?" The thought certainly has it's charm. "If only I could, honey, if only I could." Someday, when my children become adults, one by one, leaving our home, the house will begin to resemble order and maybe even a touch of class. The clink of my mother's fine china will be heard, as my husband and I sit down to a peaceful dinner. The house will be quiet...and calm...clean and empty, not looking forward to someday, but, looking back to yesterday to the time when I held my little children in my arms. It is the memories that time can't ever change or take away. I remember showering Jeffy and Katie with "I love you's," every day, the first time Kate said mama, and Jeffy's first haircut. I close my eyes...remembering. I can almost hear the pitter-patter of little feet, skipping across the hard wood floors. I still hear the little songs their young voices would sing, and the devilish giggles that used to fill these empty walls. I remember when my husband and I used to play Twister every Tuesday night with our children - left foot red, right hand green. But, I realize that too is now just imagination. Turn back the clock, Jeffy, would you? I lie here, dying, waiting for my children and their children to visit me. I can hear Kate's voice now, echoing down the hall. The memory of the past...so long ago...is like the old grey sweater I keep beside my bed from my children one Christmas morn; now with holes that I keep telling myself I'll throw away, someday, not today, I still need it. *By Melissa Honeybee* [This message has been edited by Melissa Honeybee (edited 06-18-2000).] |
||
| © Copyright 2000 Melissa P. Long-Monette - All Rights Reserved | |||
|
Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
Melissa~ Hey there. This was an insightful look into the past, present and future. I don't know how correct it is, LOL, because I don't have children either. But I will say it SOUNDED convincing! My favorite part: ...not looking forward to someday, but, looking back to yesterday... Wow! Christopher |
||
|
brian madden Member Elite
since 2000-05-06
Posts 4374ireland |
WOW Melissa, are you sure you don't have kids. That was wonderfullly written, an amazing piece of prose. It sounded so real. wonderful.< !signature--> ------------------------ "WE IRISH ARE TOO POETIC TO BE POETS, WE ARE A NATION OF BRILLIANT FAILURES." Oscar Wilde A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry [This message has been edited by brian madden (edited 06-19-2000).] |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
