So, I'm a writer. I want people to read it.
I turn 20 tomorrow. Yippee, I suppose. Nothing going on.
I grudgingly awoke to my cheery, beeping, buzzing alarm the morning of my high school graduation. That morning, I knew, held naught but boredom: boredom from sitting in a chair in the middle of the aging football stadium, its once-white cinderblock walls now cracked and peeling: great pocks of grey, long since yellowed. Similarly pocked maroon bands ran in a double stripe around the outside wall. I had surveyed the great, holey walls just the day before as I sat, bored, in rehearsal for what was to come today: graduation.
I got ready slowly, dreading graduation more and more with each approaching moment. I smiled for my mother, who was snapping pictures of me in my suit, wearing my gown, with a hat, without a hat, with dad, with brother, with the dogs, on the stairs, on the grass, and with anyone or anything else in any place she imagined. For the first time that morning, I was excited to get to graduation, if only because it meant I got a small respite from the incessant flash and the dizzying, green and blue dot that my eyes cannot help but follow after each photo.
The great pocked walls were already obscured by a sea of maroon by the time I arrived: my classmates had, in their eagerness, arrived before the specified time. I parked and joined the sea. To my dismay, the sea was white-foamed with hundreds of tiny flashes, equally blinding and dizzying as the one I was so eager to escape just a few minutes earlier. The sea was split into two mighty rivers, according to last name, and through the fjords of stadium bleacher stairs, we babbling students swept into chairs in the middle of the field.
Speech and speech and speech flowed monotonously from the heads of school and studentry, until finally-catching a few Zs before the Zs-the ceremony ended. Diploma in hand, I paddled through the surging sea, now redoubled by parents, to find my own parents and head to the house, where my father’s famous hamburgers were marinating.
My father’s hamburgers are, quite simply, unbeatable. The unmistakable smell of garlic and Worcestershire sauce blending and mixing with the meat wafts through the house when he’s making them. Cruel waves assault the olfactory, causing the mouth to water with insatiable desire far before the tongue’s taste buds may taste the meat.
When I walked through the door, rather than being greeted by the wonderful smell of hamburgers being made, I was greeted by my mom and dad who were smiling as they handed me a 3-ring binder with some loose papers in it. Of the binder, I thought briefly that it was my graduation, not my first day of school, but my curiosity conquered my skepticism, and I opened the binder. Inside, I read the words, “Today is your first birthday,” and I immediately knew what this was: my brother had received something like it when he graduated. How could I have forgotten?
I solemnly made my way to the red leather couch in the green-floored living room and eagerly began to read the first of 19 letters my father had written to me: one for each birthday and one for my completion of high school. I read about my first words, my love of carrots, and my hatred of peas. I read about how my father, the strongest man I have known, would go into my room while I slept and tell me that he loved me, that he was proud of me, and ask God to bless me. I read, and I cried.
My father has not gone anywhere, but I often open up the notebook to sift through the memories of my few years through his eyes, such as my first day of school. School had excited me so much that a week before classes started, I already had my backpack-a small, plastic thing with that lovable purple dinosaur emblazoned across its front-packed and waiting by the door. I got up every morning that week at six, ran into my parent’s bedroom, and asked if today was the day. Every morning, I would don my first day outfit: jeans, a button-down plaid flannel shirt, and red cowboy boots. I wonder now what I was thinking getting up every morning. On that fateful first day, I was up at four. Needless to say, neither mom nor dad was very happy to have been awakened at such an early hour, but I wanted to make sure that I got to school on time. “You can’t be late for the first day,” I said matter-of-factly.
Yes, that notebook will forever keep me close to my past, and it will forever speak wonders of the great care my father has taken, and still takes, in raising me. I hope and pray that I can be the manner of man my father is: generous, caring, ambitious, and greatest of all, steeped in the hope of Christ. One day, when I am a father, I hope to be able to watch my children grow, mature, and figure things out. I hope to be able to tell them of the times they cannot remember, just as my father told me. His letters have definitely inspired me to be mindful of how quickly children grow, so I can be ready when I come to the great challenge of parenthood.
I grudgingly awoke to my cheery, beeping, buzzing alarm the morning of my high school graduation. That morning, I knew, held naught but boredom: boredom from sitting in a chair in the middle of the aging football stadium, its once-white cinderblock walls now cracked and peeling: great pocks of grey, long since yellowed. Similarly pocked maroon bands ran in a double stripe around the outside wall. I had surveyed the great, holey walls just the day before as I sat, bored, in rehearsal for what was to come today: graduation.
I got ready slowly, dreading graduation more and more with each approaching moment. I smiled for my mother, who was snapping pictures of me in my suit, wearing my gown, with a hat, without a hat, with dad, with brother, with the dogs, on the stairs, on the grass, and with anyone or anything else in any place she imagined. For the first time that morning, I was excited to get to graduation, if only because it meant I got a small respite from the incessant flash and the dizzying, green and blue dot that my eyes cannot help but follow after each photo.
The great pocked walls were already obscured by a sea of maroon by the time I arrived: my classmates had, in their eagerness, arrived before the specified time. I parked and joined the sea. To my dismay, the sea was white-foamed with hundreds of tiny flashes, equally blinding and dizzying as the one I was so eager to escape just a few minutes earlier. The sea was split into two mighty rivers, according to last name, and through the fjords of stadium bleacher stairs, we babbling students swept into chairs in the middle of the field.
Speech and speech and speech flowed monotonously from the heads of school and studentry, until finally-catching a few Zs before the Zs-the ceremony ended. Diploma in hand, I paddled through the surging sea, now redoubled by parents, to find my own parents and head to the house, where my father’s famous hamburgers were marinating.
My father’s hamburgers are, quite simply, unbeatable. The unmistakable smell of garlic and Worcestershire sauce blending and mixing with the meat wafts through the house when he’s making them. Cruel waves assault the olfactory, causing the mouth to water with insatiable desire far before the tongue’s taste buds may taste the meat.
When I walked through the door, rather than being greeted by the wonderful smell of hamburgers being made, I was greeted by my mom and dad who were smiling as they handed me a 3-ring binder with some loose papers in it. Of the binder, I thought briefly that it was my graduation, not my first day of school, but my curiosity conquered my skepticism, and I opened the binder. Inside, I read the words, “Today is your first birthday,” and I immediately knew what this was: my brother had received something like it when he graduated. How could I have forgotten?
I solemnly made my way to the red leather couch in the green-floored living room and eagerly began to read the first of 19 letters my father had written to me: one for each birthday and one for my completion of high school. I read about my first words, my love of carrots, and my hatred of peas. I read about how my father, the strongest man I have known, would go into my room while I slept and tell me that he loved me, that he was proud of me, and ask God to bless me. I read, and I cried.
My father has not gone anywhere, but I often open up the notebook to sift through the memories of my few years through his eyes, such as my first day of school. School had excited me so much that a week before classes started, I already had my backpack-a small, plastic thing with that lovable purple dinosaur emblazoned across its front-packed and waiting by the door. I got up every morning that week at six, ran into my parent’s bedroom, and asked if today was the day. Every morning, I would don my first day outfit: jeans, a button-down plaid flannel shirt, and red cowboy boots. I wonder now what I was thinking getting up every morning. On that fateful first day, I was up at four. Needless to say, neither mom nor dad was very happy to have been awakened at such an early hour, but I wanted to make sure that I got to school on time. “You can’t be late for the first day,” I said matter-of-factly.
Yes, that notebook will forever keep me close to my past, and it will forever speak wonders of the great care my father has taken, and still takes, in raising me. I hope and pray that I can be the manner of man my father is: generous, caring, ambitious, and greatest of all, steeped in the hope of Christ. One day, when I am a father, I hope to be able to watch my children grow, mature, and figure things out. I hope to be able to tell them of the times they cannot remember, just as my father told me. His letters have definitely inspired me to be mindful of how quickly children grow, so I can be ready when I come to the great challenge of parenthood.