I wish that I could remember to do this more often. Sunday Scribblings #366: Resistant

I pushed against it.  Once.  And then again.  Violent and arbitrary, reckless in my contrariness; expecting only resistance.  Unprepared for the yield, I tore through, leaving unintended damage and jagged, fragile ends.  You pushed back, but only to restore equilibrium.  A benefit, you said, of years of accumulated goodwill.  A gift, a promise, and not unexpectedly, a warning.

#236 - Essential

“This won’t work.” she said flatly.

“What do you mean, it won’t work?” he asked, surprised and mildly annoyed, “It’s vanilla, right?”

“It’s imitation! And, more importantly, it’s not the vanilla that I asked you to pick up.”

Experience in these matters had taught him not to substantially alter his expression, but mentally he rolled his eyes and groaned.

“Well, sorry. But can’t you use this stuff this one time?”

“Nooooo!” she wailed. “I need vanilla! You never pay attention when it really matters! You’ve had this cake! It’s beautiful! You know how awesome it is! Imitation is just…wrong! The real stuff is essential to the mix! It’s what gives it it’s…magic, and it’s essence, and it’s…awesomeness! Without it, it just isn’t right, it’s a pale imitation!” She held the offending bottle up flamboyantly and shook it for emphasis and this, coupled with her endless capacity to dramatically overstate, made him even more irritated.

“OK. I’m sorry. I screwed up. But I think that you’re going a little overboard with the drama. OK? And it’s not like I did it on purpose, so just…I don’t know, let it go. I’ll pick some up on the way home from work.” He concluded, hoping that the current created by his air of finality would propel him out of the room before she could say anything else.

“No,” he heard her sigh, resolute in her martyrdom. “I’ll get it on my way home.”

*************************************************************************************

He tore his eyes away from the television long enough to call her cell phone for the fourth time in ninety minutes. ”Comeoncomeoncomeon! Answer!” he moaned out loud. That was her route from the grocery store. That could be her silver Toyota. Did she have a Parks and Recreation magnet on her bumper? He couldn’t remember! He never did pay attention when it really mattered! There were at least fifteen cars involved in this horrific mess, and he didn’t know where she was!

This morning’s one-act assailed him again but this time there was no annoyance, only the beginnings of a despair that compounded as her words bounced from his brain to his heart. “You’ve had this…It’s beautiful…magic…essential…essential…essential.”

The garage door rising was the most glorious sound that he might ever hear – a reversal of current, and as he crashed through the kitchen to get to her, he swiped the imitation flavoring from the counter and dropped it in the trash.

“I’m sorry” he could hear her saying as he wrenched open the door to the garage, “Accident on the freeway, and I got diverted. I need to go back out to the store but I noticed that my cell phone was dead and I wanted to check in wi—“. The rest of her words were muffled in his neck as he grabbed her and held on, relief blunting every other emotion, quieting the hysteria in his heart

It was her laugh – tired, constrained, and tinged with confusion and maybe a little irritation, that pulled him back to the moment.

“What’s wrong? What happened? Why all the drama?” she demanded, as he took her car keys and gently moved her toward the passenger side of the car.

“I need vanilla.”

My first Sunday Scribbling

#235: Flashback

Green vinyl rocking smooth and solid, chilled from the air conditioning and so warm from my mother's skin. A flash of color, and then glass. A long, clear sheet and a dull strip of metal register, as does the rough chafe of carpet under my cheek. But before the tear that has pooled can track or the cry that has bubbled can surface, my mother's hands are there - lifting, soothing, rescuing.