Nostalgia and a story
Old work. I deleted about 3 blog posts just today, so I don't know, I want this on my blog for keeps sake I guess. I didn't have a title for this, but I think I will name it now.
Task
Write an autobiographical piece based on memories that are meaningful to you. The memory/memories must be the key to a larger reflection on something of interest to your readers. Your piece should include - anecdote, observation, description and personal reflection. Remember to "show, not tell". Use concrete details. Write for the senses. Feel free to write passionately and to take risks with content and expression
Nostalgia.
‘Your mother requested that I bring you home,’ the counselor says in her red business suit, and red high heels that make rhythmic thumps as she walks along the dusty road. She thumbs the car alarm remote (several times before it beeps), and smiles before unlatching the passenger door open.
‘Your mother will explain everything once you get back.’ I linger, and hear the school bells ring a little too late for students already out of class, eager to reach home before Passions starts at 3:30 pm. I get in, and the door slams shut.
Once we exit the school, turn right, and speed past the over-crowded bus stands advertising lingerie at an all boys’ high school, I sit up straight.
---
Later, at 7:30 pm, the family would gather in the games room. Mum and Dad stand apart; their eyes dart between each other and finally settle on the lines streaking down the length of my brother’s short-sleeved arms. Barely sixteen, he would lean on a cue stick and trace the greasy patterns on the carpet floor. In the adjoining room, a girl of the same age and wearing the same pallid t-shirt as my brothers’ lies slumped at the bottom of the reception desk. Choked cries reverberate from her mouth and into the hospital’s pay phone; the busy dial tone, somehow louder than her voice. I take a tissue packet out of my pocket. Mum simply says, ‘don’t.’
For now, at 3:30 pm, when Mrs. Parsons has done as requested and speeds down the steep hill with some of Mum’s Malaysian cooking in the backseat of her red car, Mum is all smiles. She says something about having a simple dinner tonight; a simple dinner for three, but Passions has just started, and I delight in the thought that I am watching the opening credits for the first time.
---
It is late September, and students at the school hall hoot to the tune of the traditional school song, while proud parents cheer on.
‘Do you know where your brother is?’ Danny says, as we skirt the boundaries of the hall. ‘No idea,’ I reply, just as Mum darts out amidst the crowd, dressed in her finest: a red garment with disproportionate shoulder pads belonging to the high fashion of the late 80s. An analog camera in hand, she walks out of the school hall with a dozen photos of my brother smiling. Smiling with the vice principal, smiling with the school mentors, smiling with Mrs. Parsons in yellow, and smiling with friends.
‘Let me take a photo of you two,’ Mum says, already positioning herself in front of us. A red marker on my head and a white flash later, Danny; the boy wonder with violins, has taken a picture with Matthew; the boy with a declining interest in soap dramas, Britney Spears, Avril Lavigne and an increasing interest in girls, Japanese animation shows, and the tunes of Something for kate.
---
Year 10 begins with a bang, three in fact. All of them connect with my left cheek. He does not hesitate of course. Each one comes as hastily as the next, each one conjuring an epiphany. Epiphany one: the next time someone headlocks you for no reason, do not react by doing nothing. Epiphany 2: React by kicking them where it counts. Epiphany 3: a pounding in the face is not as painful as it looks.
‘Get off me,’ he says, pulling his leg away from my left hand, leaving me with a long strip of his pants. Lying flat on my back, licking the copper flavors dripping down the side of my nose, I spot the teacher on approach...
Back at the office, Mr. Brendan, the vice principal, sits across a desk of mahogany, and adjusts his spectacles so that his wrinkles waver in the sunlight. His puffy white hair had seen better days. He weaves his finger between a photo frame and a coffee mug, and presents Cameron’s statement; a montage of pitiful squiggles.
‘You have to understand,’ he says. ‘Cameron is on the school’s debating team.’
---
‘So which one is the guy?’ my brother inquires, his jet-black hair still wet from the cold shower. I point to a Caucasian boy, standing in the back row of the grade photo, wearing a cross between a smile and a smirk on his face.
‘This one.’
‘My friends and I could have taken him for sure.’ Small cracks line his egg-like face as he places his thumb and finger on my left cheek.
‘Don’t,’ I say. He pulls nonetheless.