Assignment: What You Don't Want to Write About

You sit by the window in one of the wing-backed chairs we brought up from the study, the spring breeze carrying the scent of flowers, dogs barking, and children shrieking with laughter. You sit there, dressed in your flannel pajamas with pictures of kittens holding milk bottles, wrapped in the afghan the dog used for a chew toy back in his puppy days and I can see the sharp planes of your collarbone through one of the holes. The colors don't match, almost defy matching, but you love to sit wrapped in its depths anyway. I smile when I see you sitting there and it occurs to me that you were always like that with things you loved. Like the cheap plastic horse with the chewed off ears that you insisted needed a home.

The dog, his puppyhood long behind him, lies in front of you and I can see your bare toes, gently curling into his fur. I busy myself rotating your stuffed animals, as I do every day, because you don't want them to feel lonely or neglected. You worry about things like that. “Your grandmother called,” I say. My voice sounds loud, falsely cheerful, in the morning quiet. “She and your grandfather will be here tonight.”

“Good,” you whisper and I can hear the effort in your voice, the rattle at the end of the word, so I bring the portable oxygen tank over from your bedside and gently put the nasal cannula into place. “I finished,” you say and then stop, gathering your strength.

“Wonderful,” I say at once, my gaze going to the leather book on your desk. I have written in a journal every day since I was ten years old. I can't remember when you started drawing on the first page but you do. I can't start the next book until you've drawn a picture and I can't look until you say its ready. Those journals are a chronicle of my life, of our life. Filled with stories of our days together, with bits of ribbon and snippets of material. Crammed full of memories.

“About time,” I mock grumble. “I was down to writing on the back cover in very … tiny … print.”

You laugh, light and merry, and for a moment the sun comes out and the world is right again. But your laugh turns into a wheezing cough that leaves you shaken. Your head drifts back, retreats, held upright by the wingback in just the right position to watch the field below where the neighborhood kids are racing around in the way that only ten year olds can. The tieback on the curtain has come undone again, partially obscuring your view of the field, leaving your face in shadow.

It takes ten minutes to prepare your tray and bring it up to your room. Ten minutes of not pretending, of feeling what I try not to feel. Ten minutes of gathering the shreds of my strength together once more.

I enter slowly, quietly, afraid to make too much noise, or maybe its just afraid. Your eyes are closed and I think, 'good, she's resting,' I set the tray down on the dresser and sit down at your desk to look at your drawing. Done in charcoal, it is a picture of clouds in a summer sky. You've been working on clouds for a while. You like the challenge and I think this is your best yet, that maybe it belongs on the living wall and not in this journal.

I don't want to write in this book. I don't want to write about the days to come. And as I look, I see that you have worked angels into the clouds, delicate, gossamer wings, and funny faces. They are laughing and happy. At the bottom, you've written, 'there are no tears in heaven.'

My hands are trembling as I close the book which has become so important to us both and I'm crying. Unashamedly. I look over toward where you sit, unmoving in the chair, and I feel the words all fall out of my head. Washed away with my tears. 

Re: Assignment: What You Don't Want to Write About

I have to say that this made me cry.

Re: Assignment: What You Don't Want to Write About

Yes, it made me cry too. It's so sad about the little girl, and yet she doesn't seem sad: the easy laughter and the instances where she appears to be comforting the parent (as in the drawing) and preparing her for what is yet to come, suggest she accepts her fate freely.

The way the story is made to unfold is just beautiful: picture after picture, the reader taken by the hand and shown what's 'normal' and what isn't, sitting side by side on the page (and in the same chair). Like here:

You sit there, dressed in your flannel pajamas with pictures of kittens holding milk bottles, wrapped in the afghan the dog used for a chew toy back in his puppy days and I can see the sharp planes of your collarbone through one of the holes.

The juxtaposition of laughter and pain, and sadness and happiness, make the reality even more poignant:

You laugh, light and merry, and for a moment the sun comes out and the world is right again. But your laugh turns into a wheezing cough that leaves you shaken.

and:

I don't want to write in this book. I don't want to write about the days to come. And as I look, I see that you have worked angels into the clouds, delicate, gossamer wings, and funny faces. They are laughing and happy. At the bottom, you've written, 'there are no tears in heaven.'

And there too the reader begins to understand the what and the why of the I-character's reluctance to write. As if by withholding the words from the page, she can make time stand still and thus prevent the worst from happening.

Oh, I'm crying again.

Truly awesome writing!

Ruth

Re: Assignment: What You Don't Want to Write About

This was really good. It brought back memorys of when I took care of my father towards the end of his life. 
    You wrote this very well.
  Thanks,
      Peter

Re: Assignment: What You Don't Want to Write About

the tenderness in the writing of this catches me from the start. I was caught and so lovingly shown this moment. It is the most moving and artfully written piece i have had the honour of reading.

i can see this clearly as a movie in my mind. and more then that. i feel like i am there with smells and the air and sounds.

this piece holds a sacred quality that shines brightly. thank you so much for sharing and showing and diving deeply. i wipe my eyes and yet my heart will hold these words close.

xx azyh

Re: Assignment: What You Don't Want to Write About

This is really beautiful writing, each detail fitting into place to show the scene just as intended. I was moved along through this piece at a slow but steady pace, no confusion at all as to what was taking place.

I know that the popular style of writing is to almost write without breathing, to rush and not think, just let the words fill the page, but this had a much slower, more textured feel to it, and that helped to clearly create the mood, the tensions and the moments that were punctuated.

I agree with Ruth that the line You laugh, light and merry, and for a moment the sun comes out and the world is right again is just so perfect. I also love the connection between the girl and the dog.

This is a really superb dive. Thanks!

Andrea

Re: Assignment: What You Don't Want to Write About

I found this extraordinary. So incredibly touching without being sentimental. I love the use of the second person. It pulls me in to what is happening in a way that includes me, and at the same time makes me feel very close to both the narrator and the child. It's so very sad, and yet explores and shows something that I think is incredibly difficult to express - a kind of immense dignity and presence that often happens with someone who is very ill, dying.

Just beautiful.

Re: Assignment: What You Don't Want to Write About

Oh, I was thinking about this piece again this morning and remembering that I had meant to comment on the use of second person. So, yes to what Sandra said a few minutes ago—it adds to the intimacy of the scene, the story, in a way that makes the reader feel fully there.