Free Write - Sept 8

* Pheasant hunting* 

Daddy wakes me up in the morning, before morning is really here.  4:30 am.  I open my window, and the stars stare back at me with sparkling eyes.  I throw my hair back into a pony tail, messy and loose, add a baseball cap maybe.  Dad is down in the kitchen, and as I come downstairs, his smile and whistled morning song are there to greet me, just like always.  And there are the dogs, too.  Elsie and Boscha, their sleek bodies vibrating with excitement as their little docked tails wag with pure, concentrated joy.  They know what’s coming.  We load up the white pick up truck, and I climb into the cab.  It is dark outside, and the lack of light folds me up and tucks me safely into its space.  The interior of the truck smells like jeans, dog, and the musty scent of heavy cloth gun cases, passed down from my grandpa.  As we drive (my favorite part), the stars slip away to the background and let sunbeams take center stage, as the rising sun lifts itself above the rugged mountains and pierces through the light, strawberry cream clouds.  Daddy turns the radio on quiet to a country station (this is the only time we really listen to country music; it settles right in the air and feels good in our ears). I curl up in my seat, resting my cheek against the cold glass, watching my breath fog it up a little. I fall asleep, the radio humming lullabies so gently, the dogs in the back resting quietly, my daddy and I talking about philosophy, elk hunting, my school schedule, or maybe old memories.  He is a great story teller, and knows so many things. It is light outside now, and the trees we pass look like they’ve caught afire:  orange and red blaze across the outstretched fingers of tree branches, and look absolutely stunning.  We drive passed Ronan.  On the outside edge of this little town, the fields start … wheat, mostly.  Soon, the fields meld into a duck nesting area: wetlands and wheat fields, little marsh ponds and tree rows that my daddy knows like the back of his hand.  Dirt roads.  We park, and my stomach drops a little because the drive is now over, and I always feel this little inkling in me that cries out for the ride with my dad in our own little contained universe to go on forever.  But we emerge into the larger than life world of nature, surrounded by the fresh air soaked in wonderful smells, surrounded by golden fields that are held in the arms of the Mission Mountains, jagged and majestic like I imagine the Swiss Alps are …. 

*Parker Has a Seizure* 

I am 7.  The baseball game is on tv, and I am paying very close attention because I want to love the sport.  Momma is on the couch reading, Leah is playing a game on the floor, Daddy is on the couch too, watching the game and flipping through a Cabella’s catalog.  Elsie, just a puppy maybe 2 months old, is probably asleep somewhere nearby, and Parker is curled up on the soft, cream colored rug.  And yet, this beautiful, absolutely normal moment is ever so fleeting.  Parker, 12 years old and dignified, her muzzle becoming salt and peppered with age, her tawny coat still sleek and lovely, her eyes of melted chocolate, has epilepsy, and the seizures come out of nowhere. Usually, they too are fleeting, lasting 10 minutes at most.  Scary, but short.  As she lies on her side, her legs begin to race as if she is chasing a squirrel in her dreams.  Yet, it is darker … more nightmarish as she frantically runs through her consciousness.  She foams at the mouth and her muscles spasm, her breathing becomes scarily irregular and her heart of gold races, faster and then slower and then faster again.  She can’t hear us, or see us, as we gather and try to calm her, comfort her … anything.  Elsie is scared, and Dad tells me to take her outside, into the backyard.  But I am scared, too.  Out in the dark, I hear myself saying over and over, “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay, it’s okay.”  I wonder if I am saying it to Elsie or myself.  The pine tree that drapes low over the patio is a black shape above me, blocking out the sky.  Suddenly, I worry that Elsie wandered too far, I seem to forget that our backyard is fenced, and I am petrified that I am losing her, too.   “Elsie? Elsie puppy? Come!”  Suddenly, the branches above me shudder violently and a dark shape flies out almost to fast to see.  I swear I jump two feet to my left, and I can still feel what I felt at that moment:  it was the first time in my little life that I had ever really been scared.  I wanted to go back in the house, back to the lit living room filled with the people closest to my heart.  But that room was not safe now, either … I was stuck in an in-between place, and I did not know where to go.   

*long distance relationship* 

You read about it in storybooks.  Once upon a time starts the first sentence, the “O” scrawled out in cursive so grandiose that it is barely recognizable.  But, I think that one of the many comforts of a fairytale is that you know it is “O”, and thus, it is.  I know that most people roll their eyes at happily ever afters, saying  that they are children’s dreams and nothing else; however, that all can be changed by a single experience (whether it is an experience of your own, or one you see unfold within another’s life).  Meeting a single person can drastically change the direction of your existence, and it happens so wonderfully quick.  I know I am young.  And rather innocent, really.  But I also know what my heart feels when I look at him, and I know how strong love is.  It can be seen in a spark when your eyes meet the first time, or in the quiet moments when you start to hear each others’ souls.  It is so strong that it can change how you see the world – enhance it – and fill you up from your toes all the way to the very top of your head.  Distance means nothing to love.  Separation means nothing when you know that you get to see each other soon, oh so soon.  It is hard, it hurts sometimes, and the longing to be together-together is so great that sometimes you feel like the aching inside might pressurize your heart, yet every second is worth it because you love each other.  Love is a story.  A fairytale.  A forever.  And this, this is mine: