I was eight years old.
I sat on a salvaged park bench
behind Winston's house.
The bench was broken
and leaned to the left.
The paint was chipped.
Maroon flakes stuck to my jeans.
I had a notebook
on my lap.
Blank pages grew damp
in the dewy air.
I clutched my pencil
and watched
and listened.
My membership card,
paid for with birthday money,
was a laminated square
in my back pocket.
Winston said,
if I sat long enough,
I might see a deer
or a raccoon
or, at the very least,
a nervous squirrel
scrabbling up a tree trunk.
Winston said
it was practically a nature preserve.
Hmmm...
a good place for writers,
I thought.
Winston said:
members only, though;
so I handed over my birthday money.
Winston was in eighth grade.
Next day,
he gave me my card.
My name was typed.
The lamination still warm.
I waited and waited
on that bench,
straining my eyes into the underbrush
for any sign of nature...
a ladybug
an ant
an earthworm.
My expectations diminished...
My birthday money a memory...
Finally,
when the smell
of Kentucky Fried Chicken
from the restaurant over the hill
grew too strong to bear
I headed home.
No words to describe
Winstonville...
just an empty notebook,
a growling stomach,
and a lifelong membership
to a broken park bench
in Winston's backyard.
How sad for young Lori! The urge to be a writer was so strong in you. I was sitting on that bench straining right along with you. Then I wanted to find that boy, Winston, and demand your money back. The nerve! Taking advantage of a sweet young writer. I love your last six lines, the heartache that lies within these words.
ReplyDeleteI love the like about the smell of KFC wafting over the hill to toll you back to walking home. All these years later, and you did find the words to capture that time on the broken park bench in Winston's back yard. Oh, Winston.
ReplyDeleteI love the like about the smell of KFC wafting over the hill to toll you back to walking home. All these years later, and you did find the words to capture that time on the broken park bench in Winston's back yard. Oh, Winston.
ReplyDeleteSo sad to be taken advantage of in this way. It is unfortunate that at that early age Winston had learned the art of exploitation.
ReplyDeleteOh, Winston, such a bad boy. I almost wish he came to a bad end. But you have come to a very good end, writing rings around him in your expose.
ReplyDeleteEven though Winston was a rat, I still think that the writer you won because you had faith in yourself, as a writer, and knew what it was to lie in wait for a writing idea. And you remembered it all beautifully...which is how we have this gift of a slice.
ReplyDeleteEven though Winston was a rat, I still think that the writer you won because you had faith in yourself, as a writer, and knew what it was to lie in wait for a writing idea. And you remembered it all beautifully...which is how we have this gift of a slice.
ReplyDeleteThe laminated membership card made me smile. Winston was enterprising and yes, exploitative. This reminds me of also being taken by the older kids in my neighborhood and at school.
ReplyDeleteYou are a story teller. Your skill and style have such voice. Love every word.
ReplyDeleteYou are a story teller. Your skill and style have such voice. Love every word.
ReplyDelete