Angie Kinghorn

You can’t tell or it won’t come true …

happy birthday cupcake At the keyboard I could lose myself in pages dissecting love. What else, after all, is my job as a wife, mother, daughter, and sister, but to love? We writers cut ourselves apart each time we put pen to paper, searching through the past and the pending for that ultimate point of light, the perfect way to expose the world in just the right way to show our truth.

But to bare all is to risk spilling a trail of white blood as the page itself bleeds with burning words that turn this craft into a betrayal rather than an act of love.

I can still see the candles of this year’s birthday cake, my children’s faces reflected in their glow.

“Make a wish, Mommy!”

I blew out the candles, but didn’t get them all in one breath. And the lighting wasn’t good for the photo.

So the candles were lit again, which was great, because I hadn’t been able to think of a wish the first time. Well, not a real, “I want it with every fiber of my being” kind of wish.

“Make a wish, Mommy!” the twins said again. I looked from their perfect, innocent faces to the candles dripping wax on the cream cheese icing, and I had my wish. A wish I could wish with my whole heart. They helped me blow out the candles, and the second time, between the three of us, we got them.

I wish I could stop being too aware of the pending; to write my truth about the now, without fearing reactions that make me feel silenced. I wish I could feel comfortable writing that the top of the cake was spattered with blue wax and a fair amount of child spittle, and that it was delicious and we all ate it anyway without a second thought. I wish I could pour my soul onto these pages and hit “publish” without fear. Fear of exposing anything too personal about my children, fear of angering people who might not want to be mentioned in my personal writings, fear of more real world consequences like having my primary care doctor fire me from his practice after reading a blog post.

Oh, I wish. I wish I could write about the parts of my children’s education that keep me up at night without wondering if the whole PTA will have read it by the next meeting. I wish certain of my friends in real life weren’t uncomfortable with the fact that I write about depression, anxiety, and postpartum depression.

Sometimes I even wish I’d thought to be guarded enough to make my blog anonymous so that I could say anything.

And yet, I wish for the courage to stay here, to keep my name, and to write it all anyway. I wish for the wisdom to practice this craft responsibly, without recklessness, and yet honestly. And for the strength to withstand the consequences that may bring.

 

 

This piece was written for the online writers’ workshop Write on Edge. This week’s prompt was part of their new challenge to write at the merge of two ideas. For this prompt we were given the word “wish,” and the song “Past and Pending” by The Shins. This new Write at the Merge challenge has a standing 500 word limit.

 

Write at the Merge
Write at the Merge

 

 

I’m at AmyBeth Inverness’ place today…

Today, I’m over at AmyBeth Inverness’ site, being interviewed about my pieces in Precipice, and a whole host of other things! Please go visit. Seriously, she writes the best interview questions ever.

Click here to go to the interview.

“Look! SQUIRREL!”

Our twins are curious like George, recite facts like the kid from Jerry McGuire, and ask questions like Super Why, but so far we’ve been lucky enough to escape inquiries about babies. Like, say, where they come from.

We had a close call about six months ago when Anne wanted to know how babies got out of their mommies’ tummies, and I simply told her, “Well, the mommy pushes them out. And if that doesn’t work for some reason, the doctor can make a small cut like he did with Mommy, and then take the baby out through the mommy’s stomach.”

And that was that.

But this past weekend, I was driving the twins to a birthday party, when, out of the blue, two blocks from our destination, Anne piped up with, “Mommy? Um, so, when God made grown ups, um … well, how did he make the babies?”

Oh shit oh shit oh shit I do not want to have this conversation in a car! They’ll go right into the party and tell everybody!

“Well,” I began, only to be interrupted by Grant.

“It’s like that time I flushed the whole pack of wipes down the toilet! Do you remember that? When the water went everywhere and Daddy had to get that special thing to pull them all out of there? How old was I when I did that, Mommy?”

“Um, three? Four?”

“Yes! I remember!” Anne squealed. “That was so funny!”

And then, by the grace of God, we arrived at the birthday party. All talk of babies forgotten.

Later that night, I recounted the story to Mark. When I got to Anne’s question, he said, “Yep. And that’s the part where you go, ‘Look! SQUIRREL!’”

“What?”

“If they ask again, you just shout ‘Look! SQUIRREL!’ or maybe ‘Hey! A COW!’”

“Right. But the thing is, I didn’t even have to do that. Grant kind of did it for me.” I then explained about the complete non-sequitur that was the toilet and the wipes.

“But you know,” I said, “we’re going to have to explain it eventually. And I’d rather them learn about how babies are made from us instead of hearing talk in the bathroom at school.”

We’re a family that believes in using proper anatomical names for things, so I could see Mark cringing and mentally planning a work trip for whenever the need for this conversation should arise.

I, meanwhile, was thinking that when our next credit card statement arrives in the mail, I know exactly what to say.

“Look! SQUIRREL!”

The two most famous last words

Stu sat listening to Lola’s breathing. Her skin was ivory wax. Puffs of air escaped through her cracked lips as he strained to hear, adrenaline screaming through him between each inhale and exhale.

Lola woke when the nurse changed out the empty pain pump. Stu grabbed her hand. If he squeezed, surely it would shatter.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, softly.

“What? Who?” Her eyes were glassy, whether with pain or meds, he didn’t know.

“Lola, it’s Stu. You’re in the hospital, honey.” Lord, give me the strength to get through this. For better or worse, I said. This is worse. Give me the strength to give her the peace she needs to get through worse.

“Oh.” Lola looked around, then focused on Stu. She lifted her hand to his face, her wedding band sliding around her emaciated finger.

“Do you remember what Daddy said the night you asked him to marry me?”

Stu smiled. “Hard to forget a night like that. It’s not every day someone tells you you’re too damn young to marry and to get out before they give you a reason to call it a shotgun wedding.”

Lola laughed, then coughed, shattered glass rattling in lungs full of fluid. Stu willed the tears back.

“Was it worth it?” Lola asked.

“What?”

“This,” Lola said. “All of it. Starting with nothing, putting up with me for forty years, and then having my body give out before the warranty was up. You would have done better with Chrissy.”

“It was Catherine, and no. You’re all I ever wanted. I wouldn’t change a thing.” Tears trumped will.

“Not even the dark parts?” Lola asked.

“Especially not the dark parts,” Stu said. “That’s when I learned how strong we are.”

“Not even this?”

“No. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

“Stu, I’m scared.” Lola’s eyelids looked heavier, and he could tell she was fighting to stay awake.

“Lola. Look at me. Don’t be afraid. He won’t leave you, and neither will I.” Stu gripped her hand more tightly, breakage be damned.

“Promise?” Her eyes drifted closed.

“I do.”

 

 

This small scene is part of a larger fictional work in progress. This particular piece was written for Write on Edge, an online writers’ workshop. The prompt: you have 350 words to craft a fiction or creative non-fiction piece inspired by a specific song.

The song I used for inspiration is Andrew Peterson’s “Dancing in the Minefields.” Please, please, please go watch the official video on YouTube. I promise it’s worth it.