Foreshadowing.
I ventured into the basement storage area in search of a folder I used last year with my third graders, when I taught habitats. A fellow teacher lost her folder, and asked if I would pull mine out, so she could copy it. I found myself sitting cross-legged, like the kids I teach, about ready to open a box labeled "high school memories". Amongst the collages, pictures, varsity letters, and a book on how to be a better soccer goalie, I found a composition notebook. I knew what it was, but to see it so many years later had me eager to crack it open.
It was from a creative writing class I took my senior year. I used this notebook through the beginning of college, simply adding on to the page before. Inside I found poems, limericks, quotes, and short stories. Writtten on the back cover was the initials of my boyfriends and the dates we went out:
DP: Dec 23 - Apr 5th '97
MS: May 6 - June 29 '97
MO'B: Aug 5 - Sept 20 '97
FP: May 24 -
FP is now my husband. Our first date was May 24th, 1998.
But it was one particular story that startled me. I clearly remember the assignment. It was given to us shortly after two girls from our class died in a car accident over Labor Day weekend. It was the beginning of our senior year.
The assignment was simple. It was to write 3 story starters. Here is one of mine, word for word:
"Irrationally and aimlessly I wander ouside of the color stained church to the garden in full bloom of pure white lillies. I quickly drop to my knees in front of the great holy woman Mary, and proceed with my prayers. A single tear spills from my bloodshot eye, and hangs in time from my face. It smacks the pavement, the only wet spot on this devilishly hot September afternoon. The white lillies spread towards Mary and I, as my knees begin to burn on the pavement. I hear the gentle, quick footsteps of several small children, and my single tear becomes two streams of burning sadness. My mind blocks out the chirping birds, the locusts mating, and the scurry of a chipmunk. All I hear is those sweet giggles, and I raise my eyes to the cloudless blue sky, and beg that this nightmare is not true."
Finding this notebook was like finding my 18-year-old self, which is a very bizaare experience. I remember sharing this in class, and I clearly recall that my piece was the darkest and most emotional in the class. Did I know that I would lose a child? Did I know? Did I feel it even then? Why would an 18-year-old even think about the loss of a child being a good story starter?
I believe that I put myself in the shoes of the mothers who had just lost their daughters. I know that I lost my children in such a different way, but we still both lost children.
Back then, I tried to put myself in their shoes. And now I understand.
It was from a creative writing class I took my senior year. I used this notebook through the beginning of college, simply adding on to the page before. Inside I found poems, limericks, quotes, and short stories. Writtten on the back cover was the initials of my boyfriends and the dates we went out:
DP: Dec 23 - Apr 5th '97
MS: May 6 - June 29 '97
MO'B: Aug 5 - Sept 20 '97
FP: May 24 -
FP is now my husband. Our first date was May 24th, 1998.
But it was one particular story that startled me. I clearly remember the assignment. It was given to us shortly after two girls from our class died in a car accident over Labor Day weekend. It was the beginning of our senior year.
The assignment was simple. It was to write 3 story starters. Here is one of mine, word for word:
"Irrationally and aimlessly I wander ouside of the color stained church to the garden in full bloom of pure white lillies. I quickly drop to my knees in front of the great holy woman Mary, and proceed with my prayers. A single tear spills from my bloodshot eye, and hangs in time from my face. It smacks the pavement, the only wet spot on this devilishly hot September afternoon. The white lillies spread towards Mary and I, as my knees begin to burn on the pavement. I hear the gentle, quick footsteps of several small children, and my single tear becomes two streams of burning sadness. My mind blocks out the chirping birds, the locusts mating, and the scurry of a chipmunk. All I hear is those sweet giggles, and I raise my eyes to the cloudless blue sky, and beg that this nightmare is not true."
Finding this notebook was like finding my 18-year-old self, which is a very bizaare experience. I remember sharing this in class, and I clearly recall that my piece was the darkest and most emotional in the class. Did I know that I would lose a child? Did I know? Did I feel it even then? Why would an 18-year-old even think about the loss of a child being a good story starter?
I believe that I put myself in the shoes of the mothers who had just lost their daughters. I know that I lost my children in such a different way, but we still both lost children.
Back then, I tried to put myself in their shoes. And now I understand.
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