Angie Kinghorn

Red letters

I was always meant to be Joseph’s.  What better sign than being born with his name tattooed onto my leathery skin?  From boyhood, I was his constant companion, sitting on shelf after shelf until we arrived here at our permanent home, this cabin on the lake.  Here he brought his wife, and inside my pages, joined her name to his.  With each baby, with each marriage, with each death, I was inked again.  Bearing witness.
When he took me to the porch each morning, I absorbed the oils from his fingers and the salt of his sorrows, and in return he took peace from my pages.  From his lap I watched his lips move over my stories; his calloused hands carefully turning pages that crinkled like flakes of croissants.  He paused to sip his coffee, staring out at the early morning fog on the lake.  And he talked to God, and to me, like we were old friends.
We put the children to bed together every night with a story.  Tiny Elizabeth, all dimpled cheeks and giggles, and her older brother David, literal to a fault, asking his father why the family hadn’t given away their money since Jesus said it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven?  Why were they living here at the lake when God called them to feed his sheep?  There weren’t even any sheep at the lake.  And why did they pray for the troops when Jesus said to love your enemies and bless those who curse you?  David went on like this every night until Joseph finally said “Enough, now.  Goodnight.”
David came to me often, restless, looking for answers in the place his father found his.  But I had none for him.  I watched from the table on the porch as he tried to find peace in pill bottles and vodka, and Joseph’s tears and raspy voice told me what I already knew about the rest of David’s life.
And then one day Joseph inscribed the details of David’s marriage along with the rest.
When David came to visit, to record the birth of his son in his own hand, his touch was foreign on my pages.  And though they were soft, those hands were not gentle.  He prayed over my pages and shocked me with his transgressions.  Married just a year, but lost as ever.
When I couldn’t yield the answers he wanted, the rationalization for his decisions, the forgiveness for his sin, he slammed me down and ripped out a page of Matthew.
And then I heard him, down at the woodpile, and realized what page he had taken.
“And if your hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away.  It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell.”
Screams.
Sirens.
Then silence.
So together, David, Joseph, and I were all ripped into pieces.
But Joseph has come back to me.  We are broken, torn; but we are together, even as the fresh ink scars both of us, and his tears run down my pages as if they are my own. 

***This piece is for the online writers’ group Write on Edge (formerly the Red Dress Club).  
The prompt  was for memoir, but I ended up writing fiction.  I welcome all constructive criticism. 

The prompt: Do objects have a memory? Does a rocking chair hold the essence of the snuggles it has witnessed? Does a pottery mug remember the comforting warmth it offered a struggling soul? The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.” Tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness in 400 words or less.

22 things I HAVE done

1. Jumped out of a perfectly good airplane.

2. Adopted an abused and neglected dog.  One of the best decisions I’ve ever made, even if this Christmas card was under-appreciated. 




3. Done a drug-raid ride-along with the police as a journalist.

4. Traveled by myself through two countries whose languages I didn’t speak.


5. Partied in Tijuana. 


6. Scuba dived on an iron-clad steamer in 100 feet of water.


7. Tried to give my anger to God in a collection plate.


8. Ridden on a motorcycle.


9. Danced on a bar.


10. Owned and ridden a unicycle.


11. Been in an elevator with Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thornton. 


12. Rode horses for years and won a dressage class.


13. Dressed as the Blonde Ambition version of Madonna at a Halloween party–and caught a husband as a result.


14. Endured 3 months of bedrest and preterm labor with twins and delivered two healthy babies.





15. Written an epic 100 item bucket list (and made a fair dent in it).


16. Had my ass kicked by postpartum depression, then returned the favor. 


17. Faced my biggest fear when my husband was diagnosed with testicular cancer. (He’s was given a clean bill of health at his last appointment with the oncologist, by the way!)


18. Did my own makeup and hair for my wedding (and still don’t understand why everyone thinks this was such a big deal).



19. Did my own makeup for last Halloween’s “sexy zombie” look.



20. Fallen down the stairs of the Anne Frank house (to applause from the people lined up to go in).


21. Used part of my semester abroad to bring “Animal House” to the Brits, along with toga parties and hall crawls.


22. Was there for my father when he was dying.


***This post was written for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.  The prompt: Write a list of 22 things you have done.

My father’s gift

 

This is a memoir piece for my online writers’ workshop, The Red Dress Club.  This week’s prompt is about forgiveness. Forgiving others, forgiving yourself. 

 

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The nights were the hardest, and the most precious.
During the day there was a constant low drone.  Nurses in the hallway, doctors muttering into dictaphones, somebody always taking vitals, visitors’ shoes clacking miles to nowhere on the hall tile.  Their footsteps beat various arrhythmias, echoing in my chest like strong bass. 
There were good nights and bad nights.  The bad ones still haunt me.  Sometimes I wake in a cold sweat, hearing the shrill beeping of an empty Dilaudid pump.
I found many things at my father’s deathbed.  Love.  Fear.  A strengthening of faith.  And forgiveness.
All I had to do was ask, and one night, as he was conscious, I knelt beside him and held his hand.  His beautiful hands, swollen, bruised.
“Daddy, can you forgive me?”  I asked.  His eyes snapped to mine in surprise.
“Forgive you?  For what?”
I cradled his hand between both of mine and thought of 30 years of sins against this man.  The white lies, the tantrums, spilled milk and iced tea.  The not-so-white lies.  Words thrown like daggers in anger.  All the times I could have done more, given more, loved more.  
“For everything.  I know I’ve done so many things in life that have hurt you, and I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry for anything and everything I’ve done to hurt you, and please, please, forgive me.”
He didn’t like for us to cry, but we were the only ones there, and suddenly my whole heart was there on the bed between us, beating, waiting, hoping that something in my life made up for all the inadvertent sleights and disappointments.  
“Of course I forgive you,” he said.  His eyes were clear, and it was like looking into a mirror.  I have my father’s eyes, and I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as they were in that moment.  They took in the whole of me, flawed, and they radiated unconditional love and acceptance.  He squeezed my hand, and then the drugs pulled him back under. 
Grace fell like rain that night, from a father to his daughter, bathing her in love.
I am forgiven, and each time my son or daughter threatens to run away or yells that they don’t love me anymore, I try to remember my father’s eyes.  Some day my father’s eyes will look down on my children as I tell them that they, too, are forgiven.  

Sanctuary

This is a fiction piece for my online writing group, The Red Dress Club.  This week’s prompt was to write piece about finding beauty in something ugly.  Oh, and to do so within a 600 word limit.

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The storm took her by surprise.  Rain slashed down the street in sheets, tearing through Juliet’s light windbreaker.  She swung her backpack off her shoulder and clutched it to her stomach, breaking into a run.  No way would she make it back to her dorm before her laptop and textbooks were drenched.  
There was only one place to go.  Tall and foreboding, the building cast a constant shadow over her daily scurry to and from class.  She made a habit of averting her eyes, but it was always there, on the periphery, waiting.  
The rough iron of the doorknob felt foreign in Juliet’s hand as she grasped it and pushed at the heavy door.  She shivered as she stepped into the silent stone narthex.  Rain slid down her legs in cold streaks and puddled on the floor.
She’d never been into St. Paul’s, but the faint scent of incense and the sound of the downpour thundering on the slate roof reminded her of hours spent on her knees in their little stone church back home.  Before she gave up.  
The sanctuary was empty, but for the lines of flickering votives to the left.  Unconsciously, she drifted over to the flames, casting her eyes over all the prayers represented in their flickering light.  One wick was low in its little glass, and as she watched, it grew dimmer, then, with no fanfare, went out.
Answered or unanswered, she wondered.  A life saved here, or called back home?  
The wet backpack was cold, and she forced her numb fingers to let it slip gently to the floor.  She knelt and thought of the crucifix back in her dorm room, hidden under the bed with a bottle of cheap vodka and a battered stuffed bear she’d had since babyhood.  
Suddenly she heard slow footsteps behind her.  The wood kneeler creaked, and with a heavy groan and crackling knees, a presence settled in beside her.  Glass clinked and she smelled sulfur from a match.  
And something else.  Dear God, what was that smell?  Cat piss and mildew?  A sigh turned into a rattling, chesty cough.  My God, she thought.  This is what I get for coming back.  A slow death by tuberculosis.
Another hacking cough, and Juliet couldn’t help but open her eyes.
She stared.
The figure next to her was wearing dark rags.   He had a thick wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and as he coughed again, she smelled wet dog.  She felt nauseated.
His fingers were thick and lined with dirt.  The callused skin gave way to ragged nails edged with black, and his hands shook as he placed the candle on the altar.
Another cough and he turned his head in her direction.
Juliet knew that face.  She saw it every day outside the diner just off campus, as she walked home.  He sat on the sidewalk with his guitar, and she’d passed him so many times she’d learned to ignore him, to not feel the pang at the open guitar case holding only loose change.
His eyes were closed in prayer, and as she watched in amazement, the big, dirty hands produced a delicate rosary and began weaving a practiced path along the worn beads.  
He was far away, close to his God, and now Juliet was the invisible one.  She couldn’t stop looking at his face, his hands, his lips as they whispered the same prayers she’d been taught and all but forgotten.
And then, tears began to slide down his face, streaking clean tracks through the grime.  She felt guilty for bearing witness to this, for being here when she only needed to get out of the rain.
Slowly, she pushed herself up and gathered her wet bag from the floor.  
At the door, she looked back.
The kneeler was empty.