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writing snippet
Jun. 24th, 2011 05:32 am"You don't even know my mom."
"I know she misses you. She's your mother, Maria Lucia. There isn't a day goes by she doesn't worry about you, wonder what happened to you and where you are now and whether you're all right."
"Look. I was five years old the first time I broke the storm door knocking to be let in. It was an aluminum frame with two glass panels that you could switch for screens in the summer, but it was winter, so they were glass. My mom dropped me off at the bottom of the driveway to get the mail. By the time I got to house, they were inside, my brother and sister and my mom. She left the door, the wooden door, open, but the storm door was locked. I remember being mad at getting locked out again. It didn't happen often enough for me to expect it, not then, but it wasn't a big surprise. I remember this day because of breaking the door and getting shouted at afterwards, why did I break the door, why was I so bad-tempered, why didn't I just walk around to the front of the house and ring the doorbell. Which I said was because the sidewalk wasn't shoveled and the snow would fall in my boots, but really I just didn't think of it. I could hear her in the kitchen, so why couldn't she hear me? So I kept screaming louder and knocking harder until the glass just broke. That PSA that says 'Do you know where your children are?' was not operative. She knew where her children were. They were safe and warm in front of the TV. That other child screaming and banging on the door was nothing to do with her."
"But why? Why did she do that?"
"I don't know why!" She was shouting. Her face was hot. "I was--" selfish, nasty, just like your father. "I was five." And now she was crying. Ms Helmers was talking, but she was going, going, gone.
Boxofdelights user's manual: I still get really abnormally upset at being locked out of my own house.
"I know she misses you. She's your mother, Maria Lucia. There isn't a day goes by she doesn't worry about you, wonder what happened to you and where you are now and whether you're all right."
"Look. I was five years old the first time I broke the storm door knocking to be let in. It was an aluminum frame with two glass panels that you could switch for screens in the summer, but it was winter, so they were glass. My mom dropped me off at the bottom of the driveway to get the mail. By the time I got to house, they were inside, my brother and sister and my mom. She left the door, the wooden door, open, but the storm door was locked. I remember being mad at getting locked out again. It didn't happen often enough for me to expect it, not then, but it wasn't a big surprise. I remember this day because of breaking the door and getting shouted at afterwards, why did I break the door, why was I so bad-tempered, why didn't I just walk around to the front of the house and ring the doorbell. Which I said was because the sidewalk wasn't shoveled and the snow would fall in my boots, but really I just didn't think of it. I could hear her in the kitchen, so why couldn't she hear me? So I kept screaming louder and knocking harder until the glass just broke. That PSA that says 'Do you know where your children are?' was not operative. She knew where her children were. They were safe and warm in front of the TV. That other child screaming and banging on the door was nothing to do with her."
"But why? Why did she do that?"
"I don't know why!" She was shouting. Her face was hot. "I was--" selfish, nasty, just like your father. "I was five." And now she was crying. Ms Helmers was talking, but she was going, going, gone.
Boxofdelights user's manual: I still get really abnormally upset at being locked out of my own house.