(no subject)
(*And so this begins another short story of mine, one that I will probably never finish, but anyways, ONWARDS!*)
As time goes on and I age with the passing hours of the passing days, I find that my childhood seems to become much more distant. It’s as if I’m looking through the wrong end of the telescope, never being able to close in on my memories. I lose the first few years of my life, as they are replaced with the last few, and as I grow older my past seems to fade. But even so I can remember us leaving that lovely old house, with its wide old porch and creaky steps.
I was small for my age, seven years old, but still so tiny. My father would call me his Thumbelina, saying that he found the most beautiful flower out in the field soon after he and my mother married. He picked it and brought it home to give to her as a present; and then that next morning, there I lay, the most beautiful baby they ever saw. They named me Leilani, the flower of Heaven in Italian.
It’s funny how I can pick out this certain memory so easily, us moving from our original home, yet I don’t really care about the first time I rode a bike, or my first day of school. Those were minor things to me for obvious reasons, but this memory was so precious and for a while I could never quite realize why.
I sat in my mother’s lap contentedly, in that sunflower yellow dress she sewed with her own soft hands, those same hands which held me closely to her heart. I watched my father climb into our old beat up truck and start the ignition, his laughing blue eyes winking at my mother and smiling at me.
Looking back now, I’d give up everything I own to be back in that rusty truck, sitting happily with my parents as I played cat’s cradle with an old pair of shoe strings, my mother rocking me back and forth as she sang me a lullaby with no words, and my father humming along with joy shining in his eyes.
We must have looked ridiculous, carting around a blooming cherry blossom tree in the back of our truck, tied down with strong elastic cords. It was really my mother’s idea. She told me that when I was born they planted that tree in the front yard, to grow and flourish as they knew I would. I was that tree, tiny and awkward and beautiful all at once. I was uprooted but I was surviving, just like that tree. That was what my mother told me and though I didn’t understand at the time, I nodded and I trusted that she was right.
I vaguely remember asking her the location of her tree, the one that represented who she was, but her eyes gained a sad faraway look and she never really answered my question. Instead she just replied, “Oh it’s somewhere out there Lani. I know it’s alive, because I’m alive too.”
Yes, that’s what she said as we left our home behind.
Ashley
As time goes on and I age with the passing hours of the passing days, I find that my childhood seems to become much more distant. It’s as if I’m looking through the wrong end of the telescope, never being able to close in on my memories. I lose the first few years of my life, as they are replaced with the last few, and as I grow older my past seems to fade. But even so I can remember us leaving that lovely old house, with its wide old porch and creaky steps.
I was small for my age, seven years old, but still so tiny. My father would call me his Thumbelina, saying that he found the most beautiful flower out in the field soon after he and my mother married. He picked it and brought it home to give to her as a present; and then that next morning, there I lay, the most beautiful baby they ever saw. They named me Leilani, the flower of Heaven in Italian.
It’s funny how I can pick out this certain memory so easily, us moving from our original home, yet I don’t really care about the first time I rode a bike, or my first day of school. Those were minor things to me for obvious reasons, but this memory was so precious and for a while I could never quite realize why.
I sat in my mother’s lap contentedly, in that sunflower yellow dress she sewed with her own soft hands, those same hands which held me closely to her heart. I watched my father climb into our old beat up truck and start the ignition, his laughing blue eyes winking at my mother and smiling at me.
Looking back now, I’d give up everything I own to be back in that rusty truck, sitting happily with my parents as I played cat’s cradle with an old pair of shoe strings, my mother rocking me back and forth as she sang me a lullaby with no words, and my father humming along with joy shining in his eyes.
We must have looked ridiculous, carting around a blooming cherry blossom tree in the back of our truck, tied down with strong elastic cords. It was really my mother’s idea. She told me that when I was born they planted that tree in the front yard, to grow and flourish as they knew I would. I was that tree, tiny and awkward and beautiful all at once. I was uprooted but I was surviving, just like that tree. That was what my mother told me and though I didn’t understand at the time, I nodded and I trusted that she was right.
I vaguely remember asking her the location of her tree, the one that represented who she was, but her eyes gained a sad faraway look and she never really answered my question. Instead she just replied, “Oh it’s somewhere out there Lani. I know it’s alive, because I’m alive too.”
Yes, that’s what she said as we left our home behind.
Ashley