A quote: “Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you.” Exodus 20:12
… I’ll start with a story …
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She looks back, “You don’t want to go to school today, do you, honey?”
I nod, tears spilling. She drives past the school.
Our shoes in the car, her capris rolled-up and the day is filled with sand castles, wading in the surf, laughter and moments when I spill my guts as only a 9-year-old can.
Growing up wasn’t easy, yet that’s the day I remember sitting here while she stares off, picking at her clothes.
One day I sneak her out, take off her shoes, roll up her slacks and we splash in the surf.
I find mom again.
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Now, it’s your turn.
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featured image, cropped, by Pixabay from Pexels, license
Mark Bossingham says: 1958. The hall closet and its wilting box of bomb shelter food. Brown bread in a can and a pickled pig’s foot in a jar.
He said, “No girls” on the county baseball team.
“But I’m a pitcher,” I argued, an eleven-year-old fastball.
Mom grinned and volunteered to manage the team.
Strike one, goodbye brown bread; strike two, goodbye pig’s foot.
The atomic food gone, Khruschev purged by a season’s supply of baseballs.
1962. I’m on the mound at Candlestick. Mom watches as I pitch batting practice.
Too late on my 12-6 curve. Willie Mays tips his cap. Strike three.
Tim Mitcham says: Sitting at the bus stop, she stop her car, and stared at him. As she pulled away she took his heart. A year in Vietnam, for the first time in three months he knew he was coming back. He had something to live for. He was going to find her, and marry her.
Phoenix says: She wasn’t going to cry. She had promised herself that. After all, this wasn’t the end, it was the start of a glorious adventure. She knew her mother and father would be standing on the porch, watching her drive away.
She glanced back and gave them a jaunty little wave as her car pulled away from the curb. They were standing there, arms around each other, waving her away. She put her eyes back on the road and felt a tear trail down her cheek.
Cameron says: “Color cameras were a new thing back then. Even if you took the shot, there was the risk that it wouldn’t come out right for one reason or another. But this?” he held up the picture of the woman driving the car, her expression between curious and amused. “This one shot was perfect and I knew I’d never find another woman like her.”
The old man and I had always disliked each other but hearing him out harmed nothing. And that was why at the funeral, I made sure that the picture was in his inside pocket before they buried him.
Uber’s on time.
I get in back and say, “14th and K Streets.”
Beautiful blond.
Perfect skin.
Sensual mouth.
Nice dress.
Not your typical Uber driver.
“First time?” she asks.
Her voice sounds mechanical.
“No, I live here.”
Heavy traffic. I-395. She’s driving 90 mph.
“First time?” She repeats.
“No, I’ve used Uber before.”
She keeps looking at me and not the road.
“First time with a robot?”
“What?” I answer.
“My place or yours?” she asks.
That’s it. I lift her scarf and turn the knob in the back of her head counterclockwise.
She slumps over. We stop.
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