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The inspiration …
A story …
She smiled at her son, and as she reached up to hug him she thought of the happy infant he had been. His fall off his first two-wheeler, the broken arm, scribbled birthday cards to her, and Little League trophies, his face as he saw his bride approach and the excitement in his voice when he told her of his first child. He looked down at her, smiling, guessing her thoughts.
A hand was patting her awake, the machine was turned off, someone hustling out of the room carrying a silvered basin.
“All done. Thank you for choosing Planned Parenthood.”
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Now, your turn.
Steve Fletcher says: Her name was Emmie. She was full of smiles and mischief; although whether she intended it as mischief I couldn’t say.
We called her a miracle, but not all of us. Some called her monster, saying she would replace us, render us obsolete, take our jobs.
She looked human – chubby arms that grew as she grew but made of metal with flesh of plastic.
I write looking over a sea of Emmie’s, and wonder whether I’ve become the father of a nation or only a techie slave master, and where I will hide when Emmie asks that same question?
She smiled at her son, and as she reached up to hug him she thought of the happy infant he had been. His fall off his first two-wheeler, the broken arm, scribbled birthday cards to her, and Little League trophies, his face as he saw his bride approach and the excitement in his voice when he told her of his first child. He looked down at her, smiling, guessing her thoughts.
A hand was patting her awake, the machine was turned off, someone hustling out of the room carrying a silvered basin.
“All done. Thank you for choosing Planned Parenthood.”
“Nana, Nana, come see the butterfly!” Her grandson was excited, they had been watching the cocoon all day as the insect struggled to free itself from its silken trap. The little boy held her hand when they came out onto the porch, and watched with glee, as the beautiful monarch stretched its drying wings and took flight.
“Is it magic, Nana or is it real?” The little boy’s blue eyes were duplicates of his fathers.
“It is real, sweetheart,” she told him, remembering the horrible nightmare she had experienced the day his father was born.
She shuddered and thanked God.
Bob Rich says: Hands of Time
She drifted, remembering those tiny hands so perfectly formed. And plump. How they casually pushed the strained peaches about her face. How they first held a spoon as a young lady should, and grew long and slender and earnestly struggled with the piano, and her first daisy which proved that art comes from the heart and not the hand.
And how she taught those hands to grip the racket with such confidence and those same hands were gentle on the booboos of new tiny hands and as they assumed their lasting character how they entwined with other loving and loved hands.
And how they now held her own hands which now seemed so tiny in hers.
And then she went to sleep.
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