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So i am in a creative writing class and we had to write a poem about an object from our childhood that reminds us of a family member... I kinda want some feedback if you guys have some time...
A Timeout from the Ordinary
It happened the same way every time.
A knock on the white door, and the simple, incomplete, yet important question of “Can I see them Nick?”
Standing in the frame of the door, arms crossed, face outlined by the golden glow of his long, blonde hair, his right cheek would rise, followed by the right part of his mouth becoming that half smile that I became used to in my childhood. In a quite and forgiving tone he would say “OK, but this is the last time Nathan”.
Running past him I would plop myself on the ground in front of the beaten up wood bureau waiting in anticipation of the wonders that awaited my eyes.
He would reach high into the closet and retrieve the key from the glass jar and carefully unlock the center drawer.
The excitement would swell up inside me as the rusty Master Lock was removed and the broken doors creaked open.
The enthusiasm was replaced by complete awe as the cold steal and red velvet filled my vision. Everything else in the room seemed to disappear.
I followed every movement of my brother’s hands as he would grasp the hilt of one of the many daggers and pull them out of the darkness, gently placing the blade in the palm of his hand.
He would spin the blade slowly around so the metal would grab the light and throw it back to my eyes in a spectacle of sparkles and glistens.
One by one he would show me each and every knife, letting me take in the shape, texture, light, and sound. Each blade caught the light differently; each blade had its own story.
On the rare occasion when I could take my eyes off the shiny metal I would glance at my brother, awe-stricken, he would be holding that half smile on his face, watching me intently.
It could have been the time spent with my brother just sitting and listening to him talk, no resentful words exchanged between us, there was no wrestling, or bickering like brothers do. It could have been the way the daggers looked in his strong hands, or the way the light caught the shape of the knife, but that I am not sure of that.
I know what a brother should know however, that it was times like these that I admired my brother, it was times like these I wanted to grow to be just like him, strong as steal and sharp as a blade.
A Timeout from the Ordinary
It happened the same way every time.
A knock on the white door, and the simple, incomplete, yet important question of “Can I see them Nick?”
Standing in the frame of the door, arms crossed, face outlined by the golden glow of his long, blonde hair, his right cheek would rise, followed by the right part of his mouth becoming that half smile that I became used to in my childhood. In a quite and forgiving tone he would say “OK, but this is the last time Nathan”.
Running past him I would plop myself on the ground in front of the beaten up wood bureau waiting in anticipation of the wonders that awaited my eyes.
He would reach high into the closet and retrieve the key from the glass jar and carefully unlock the center drawer.
The excitement would swell up inside me as the rusty Master Lock was removed and the broken doors creaked open.
The enthusiasm was replaced by complete awe as the cold steal and red velvet filled my vision. Everything else in the room seemed to disappear.
I followed every movement of my brother’s hands as he would grasp the hilt of one of the many daggers and pull them out of the darkness, gently placing the blade in the palm of his hand.
He would spin the blade slowly around so the metal would grab the light and throw it back to my eyes in a spectacle of sparkles and glistens.
One by one he would show me each and every knife, letting me take in the shape, texture, light, and sound. Each blade caught the light differently; each blade had its own story.
On the rare occasion when I could take my eyes off the shiny metal I would glance at my brother, awe-stricken, he would be holding that half smile on his face, watching me intently.
It could have been the time spent with my brother just sitting and listening to him talk, no resentful words exchanged between us, there was no wrestling, or bickering like brothers do. It could have been the way the daggers looked in his strong hands, or the way the light caught the shape of the knife, but that I am not sure of that.
I know what a brother should know however, that it was times like these that I admired my brother, it was times like these I wanted to grow to be just like him, strong as steal and sharp as a blade.