written.

I just got out of my Creative Non-Fiction writing class with Miss Brown. I received a few pieces I'd written back, two of which she seemed to particularly like. (One of them is posted below.) It's been a while since I've posted on here, so I decided it was once again time to put up some of my works. Again, these are written from my perspective. The first is a response to a writing prompt. The names of the characters have been changed, just a little FYI. The second piece is my short memoir essay [unedited].

Also, I started a gallery of Chicago photographs I've taken. Click here to view it.

Laced with the Truth
“Many a truth is uttered in jest.”

I don’t know who said that, but he were a genius. And I feel like a genius for being able to successfully hide behind that fact.
 
Melissa comes by our room nearly a dozen times each day. I’ve begun to recognize her signature tap tap tap on the door.

“Come in.”

Nothing.

“Come in!” Is it that hard to hear?

The handle turns, the door swings gently open, and there is her bright pink face peering in. Sometimes I wait to see if she could possibly be here for another reason than the one that brings her over every couple of hours. Other times I volunteer, “She’s not here.”

This time I wait for her squeaky, “Is Amy in?”

“Nope. She’s at PCM.” She'll retuen later, at which time, I’m sure you’ll be back.

“Okay, thanks.” She lingers in the doorway, watching me.

I take advantage of the opportunity to plant a thought in her brain. “I know you’re not here to see me, it’s okay.” I’m bland about it, allowing a hint of sarcastic humor to wriggle its way out.

She smiles, seems to think it’s funny. Good, she hasn’t caught on yet. “How are you doing?”

You don’t have to ask, I know you don’t care. “Good. You?” I have to ask. It’s called being polite.

“Good. When will Amy be back?”

“After 9 p.m.” Time for another jab. “I know it’s hard for you to be without her.” This time I’m more sympathetic, but it still sounds dry.

She giggles squeakily. “Yeah. I have something to tell her.”

I feel sort of guilty and undo what’s been done. “Well, feel free to come back later tonight.” My enthusiasm is fake, but I try to sound sincere.

“Okay! Thanks Elise!” She ducks quickly out the door.

I don’t know whether to feel guilty or annoyed. I decide annoyance is the dominant feeling and think about how obnoxious she is for coming by so much. At the same time, I resolve not to make sarcastic statements laced with the truth.

“Many a truth is uttered in jest.”

Can anyone tell besides me?

The Backyard
My favorite backyard came to me when I was three. I had never had a yard like it before and I probably never will again. It was perfect for doing just about anything that a small child with a big imagination would like to do.

This backyard was one of the biggest in our neighborhood. I knew this was true because my mother had said that all the neighbors wanted to put a communal pool in it. I thought a pool would be nice, but I wasn’t too sure about giving up my yard. It was nicely sheltered, like most of the other yards, with a six-foot privacy fence running the width of the back and front. It had once been a shiny, new fence of amber-colored wood, but not long after it was put up, all the slats turned a weathered grey. Some of them broke off and became firearms or grave markers for dead animals. The majority of the length of the yard was marked by our house and our next-door neighbors’ house, which stood side-by-side. The burgundy brick of the neighbors’ house made a nice plain wall with only a gate, like our fence, on the side. It led into their atrium, a place I rarely saw. Our house had three large windows with little brick ledges and a sliding door that let out onto the cement-slab patio.

Sometime shortly after getting the yard, my parents outfitted it with a swing set and homemade sandbox. The swing set was made of rickety white metal, stamped with a red and blue design. It came complete with a slide, a two-seater swing that looked like a see-saw, two regular swings with white seats and silver chains, and another two-seater that looked like a little carriage with a floor made of metal slats. The swing set often doubled as a sailing vessel. My father made the sandbox frame out of thick pieces of wood. But the bottom was only a black tarp. The yard was now ready.

I spent many a long Texas afternoon close to the grass, basking in earthy fragrances and digging in the dirt. I picked weed roots and dandelions which became vegetables and sun-baked mud which became cakes. I caught spiders and butterflies to keep as pets in jars. I sat on the stiff plastic swings reading Trixie Belden mystery books that had once belonged to my mother. I had long conversations with friends who were real in my mind, but never took tangible shape before my eyes. I planted herbs and flowers, tending them and watching them grow. I walked around the perimeter of the yard numerous times, eventually wearing a visible path in the lawn. I walked the Oregon Trail or rode a horse to far-off places. The yard was my haven, my sanctuary; it was my place to be and do and become. I was free there, free to imagine whatever I wanted. I gave nary a thought to what other people might think of me. Behind its looming fence, the yard kept me safe, hiding me from the prying eyes of the world.

When I was 12, I had to bid the yard farewell. My family was moving to a different house, and I was going to a new yard. Of course it was nice a nice yard, with two vast pecan trees and a wooden swing set with a fort built in. I did enjoy it, and all the other yards since, but there has never been a yard quite like the yard that came to me when I was three. Perhaps it was so wonderful because I was so young and carefree. And now that I am older, carrying the burdens of an adult, I often long for a day spent in the yard. I long for a day to lose myself in the imagination of my childhood, to dig up fragrant earth and to watch things grow. I long for a day of freedom from the world, freedom for my heart, the freedom of the yard.