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My friend Dax is sitting in a backseat of a taxi crawling through hot midday traffic.  The aircon conks out, so he rolls down the window.  The taxi is at a full stop when a scrawny little girl selling garlands of sampaguita (Arabian jasmine) walks over by the car window.  She looks like she’s 10.  Possibly older.  She waves the sampaguita at Dax and with a forced smile says, “Sir, buy sampaguita. For your lady friend. Or your mother.  Very cheap.”

“No, thank you.”

“Please, sir.  I really need money. Just one. I need to buy food.” she responds in a monotone.  Dax shakes his head.  “Please?  Just one?  I’m very hungry.” she insists, yet with an unchanging tone in her voice. 

“No.”

Then the girl takes one garland and throws it into the open window, landing on Dax’s lap.  “Take it.” the girl says, her face blank. “That’s my gift to you.”  She turns her back and slowly walks on to the next car.

“Hey!” Dax calls out to her.  He tosses the sampaguita back out the window and she catches it.  “I said, no thank you!”  The girl flings it back at him. “Keep it.  It’s a gift.”  He tosses it back again. “I don’t want it.” She catches it and throws it back.  "It's yours now." It’s becoming ridiculous.

“Fine. Let me pay for this one.” Dax says, holding on to the now bruised sampaguita garland and takes out his wallet.  He hands the kid a 20-peso bill.  It’s more than what the garland is worth.  She takes the bill, pauses and throws it back to Dax.  “Keep your money. The sampaguita is a gift. Enjoy it.”  They then resume one round of playing catch with the 20-peso bill.

Finally the traffic starts moving and Dax tosses the 20-peso bill at the scrawny 10 year old girl, the one who looks possibly older, for the last time.  She catches it.

The taxi drives away and Dax looks back at the kid.  She is slowly walking over to the sidewalk still with her dead expressionless face.  She takes all her garlands of sampaguita and starts violently whipping them against the concrete wall.

writing prompt #13

PROMPT: Write a story that is set in Argentina in 1932, in which a teacup plays a crucial role. (San Francisco's Writers' Grotto)

One day, people will rob my home and, in the crossfire, my mother will die. I will be sent to live with my brother in Buenos Aires. I will cling to the memory of my mother grabbing me in one hand and clutching her favorite porcelain teacup - the only one left from a set given to her by my father–in the kitchen, as the robbers break in. I will remember her telling me to hide, and that being the last time I will see her alive. I will remember seeing the teacup clutched to her now cold, lifeless chest. I will take the teacup with me.

I will grow from being a gangly country girl to a sophisticated woman. My brother and I will fight daily about everything from the length of my skirt to politics. He will be a supporter of the Nazis and I will curse his name for it. One day, our fight will get so bad that he will throw my mother's teacup across the room. I will lunge to catch it and I will, but not before I pierce my leg on a loose nail.

My brother and I won’t fight for weeks. 

One day, on my way to work, a man will notice me and my teacup filled with black coffee. He will ask about the coffee-filled teacup, but I will ask about the parcel he's holding to take the focus off his query. I will go on with my day, soon forgetting him.

He will not forget me.

We will see each other the next day, and he will ask why I drank my coffee with a teacup the previous day. I will not tell him. We will repeat this routine every morning. Our conversations will broaden to the world’s unrest. The conversations will soon turn to ourselves, but the opening greeting will still be a question about the teacup. One day, I will answer his question. It will be the day we realize we are in love.

One summer day, we will marry. My brother will walk me down the aisle. We will mutter arguments back forth as he does. My husband will buy me a tea set, but my mother’s teacup will remain as my favorite. We will grow old together, and we will have many children. We will raise them well and live happily.

One day.

But today, I am a young girl living in the countryside, watching my mother sip tea from her favorite porcelain teacup.

Originally posted on ispepsiok.wordpress.com

anak

My Love,

You didn’t come with instructions.  Neither did I.  I apologize for that. What now, then?  How do I wipe that sadness off your sweet innocent face?

At such a tender age you now see life’s cruelties for 10 years I struggled to shield you from. The wall of trust, strength and comfort built around your sanctuary is slowly crumbling before your very eyes.  You now see the ugly truth that I am human too.

I should know how to handle the dainty china of your soul cabinet.  But I don’t.  Like you, I am with fear.  I should focus on you and your brother to guide me through this. But not even the brightest of colors can be seen in the dark.  No pigments can reflect in the absence of light.

Don’t fret, my love.  What I do know is, this is without permanence.  In time, life will be beautiful around you again.  Slowly you will grasp the magnificence of lessons learned by women from your generations past, lessons that you will take with you.

For now, listen to your heart.  The one that says nothing happening around you is your doing.  Adults make bad decisions. They don’t mean to most of the time.  It’s what they learned from their past or how they were brought up.  They are not bad people.  Neither are you.

In time, you will have your own set of truths.  Your own beliefs, opinions, philosophies. You will soon realize your unique wonderful gifts, both little and grand.  And you will fully embrace the idea that the greatest love you have is for yourself.  Once you do this, you will attract and choose the grandest opportunities, the kindest people, the best life partner.  How light your life will be!

That thing they say about dancing like no one is watching? Do that. Live in the honest truth of who you are. Then you have to claim your space.  Occupy it! Shrink away only when you want to.  When you need a break.

Always listen to fights.  Listen to understand.  Don’t listen to respond.  Listen to what the universe is shaking off from you when fights occur.  Know when it begs for fixing and when it is beyond repair.

You will feel sadness again in your life- the kind of sadness that turns into panic when you wake up at 3AM and have a full concept that you are completely alone.  That kind of panic.

But it passes.  It is only there for a few minutes.  You battle it with prayers.  With song.   With crying.  Crying is good.  It washes out toxins from your soul.  Corny I know, but it’s true.  And in most cases you deal with it via a long distance call from your best friend.

You need to laugh at yourself sometimes.  It is when you laugh at your failures, your insecurities and pain that you take away their power.  Keep friends who make you laugh and be that friend to others.  That is why Uncle Pops and I remain to be best friends to this day, and why Uncle Ben has kept me on his ‘call for emergency’ list on his phone all these years.

Work. Learn. Read. Stand up to bullies.  Give back.

Respect people.  Respect animals.  Respect Mother Earth. Focus on always being creative.

Love.  Open your heart to love. Love that defies inconvenience.  Love with a sin of passion.  It is why we are here on this earth.  You have to love.  You have to feel.  It will break you one way or the other, but you have to risk your heart and be swallowed up.  It is so worth it. Love is what brought you to me.

I'm here, always.

I love you forever.

Mommy

Originally posted on ispepsiok.wordpress.com

mommyfied!

Today I decide to be the quintessential patient, crafty and involved apron-clad mother.  The kids and I are doing crafts on this beautiful snowy Sunday afternoon. 

A tv ad for a cleaning product depicts a woman whose grungy children and wet dog running amuck all over her immaculate white carpet, covering it in slimy black grime and mud. The commotion startles her, but instead of going ballistic, she sighs, shakes her head and smiles.

It’s a load of crap, if you ask me.  It's a big fat lie.  Think about it.  Who smiles at a sight like that? 

But today, I embrace it. I choose to be THAT mother. I embrace a messy kitchen, that will be filled with happiness and joy.

Girl, 8 and Boy, 6 want to build a ginger bread house. I take pleasure in saying NO to them most of the time, but I am the fun mommy this afternoon, so ginger bread house it is.  They are ecstatic.  They are filled with excitement and happily discuss their plans for this edible house. 

Ahh.. the Ginger bread house: a wholesome fun activity for the whole family! This allows them to develop their creativity and encourage them to work together on a project.  Art, education and entertainment, all for a low price of $9.99! Everyone wins.

I get my camera ready.  I give myself a pat on the back and feel proud for creating this sweet memory for my children. (And realize that this is what actual normal mothers do. But who cares. I still celebrate my awesomeness.) Photos will be taken and shared with family members and close friends.  Then I decide I will capture a beautiful moment between the 2 kids and make that our Christmas card cover this year. Perfect.

I bring out the ginger bread house kit.  An argument ensues as to who gets the coveted role of opening the box. I give them my ‘look’.  Warning #1 is declared.  I open the box.

Type-A-personality Girl neatly lays all the ingredients on the kitchen counter. Devil-may-care Boy picks up a bag of candy from the neat pile, feasts on it.  Fight no. 2.  I threaten to confiscate the entire kit should any fighting strikes again. 

They start building.  The icing fails to completely glue the four panels of the house, and as soon as the roofs are placed, the whole structure collapses.  Girl gets frustrated. She tries again, this time crying for help.  I put more icing, and instruct her to wait a few minutes for it to dry.  She follows my instructions.  She pipes a beautiful pattern of icing on the roof, squeezing more than she should have.  The weight causes the house to flop again.  She gets on the ground in a dramatic fashion claiming she has caused the destruction of this edifice. 

The Boy, with mouth full of sugar balls, mimics and mocks her and this triggers an all out war.  One is high on emotions, the other jumping up and down, high on sugar. Candies and plastic knives are thrown in defiance. 

Boy drops 2 bags of colored icing on the floor.  He gets off the kitchen stool and accidentally steps on both bags squirting red and green icing all over.  He walks on the goo, slips and lands on the Girl who is still in the middle of her emotional outburst on the floor. They scream at each other, both turn to me and simultaneously argue their case, expecting that I reprimand whoever started this whole debacle. 

I blankly stare at them in surrender. 

The phone rings.  It’s my friend Abigail who is now a welcome distraction to the ongoing chaos.  I tell her to not mind the noise, as it is the sound of my reality that I want to block for a few minutes.  Abigail, who is not a stranger to crazy fighting children, offers an unsolicited advice: 

“You know, what you should do, get them to make a gingerbread house.”

Originally posted on ispepsiok.wordpress.com