Writer's Block: When I Was Young
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November, 1991. It’s 6:00am. The ancient floor heater coughs to life and fills the house with radiant warmth and the smell of smoldering dust. I peek over the top of my soft, thick blanket, the one with the line of cats in pink tutus parading across the plushy fabric. Through the window, I see the sun, barely nudging out over the horizon, casting a long thin wedge of light onto the sill. Slowly, I pry myself from the warmth of my bed. Veritable menageries of stuffed animals tumble after me. I freeze. Did anyone hear? No. My dad won’t leave for work until later, and he’s still snoring away in the room down the hall. My mom is there too, and in response to the said snoring has fitted herself with earplugs that deafen even a mother’s normally superhuman senses. I slip on the fuzzy purple slippers I keep under my bed. The bottoms are caked with dirt, evidence that this ritual has been performed many times before. I don’t bother with a jacket. It’s below freezing out there and I know it, but the cold is part of the adventure. The bulky pink parka that I so despise lies crumpled on the floor, forgotten. Slowly, into the back room, I slip the key into the back door. The lock turns. Click. A quick look back. No one is there. The heater gurgles along contentedly. My dad’s snores float faintly through the walls. I open the door and step out onto the porch. The cold hits me like truck. It is twenty eight degrees, and I am standing outside in my Disney princess nightgown, alone. I make my way into the backyard. I don’t have any particular destination. I stop and bend to stroke the soft blades of grass, covered with a thick, sharp frost. I savor the sensations-cold, soft, thick, bumpy, hard. Autumn birds begin to sing, I can almost see their calls spiraling through the air. My breath comes out in puffs of vapor, like a dragon. I see the sun. It is getting stronger now. Rays shoot up on the horizon, a froth of pink and orange burns the sky. Colors unlike anything else, colors they didn’t teach you about in preschool, that aren’t included in the standard box of crayons. Slowly, the yard becomes illuminated, bit by bit, as the sun stretches out its tendrils and the earth inches along its orbit. Soon I am standing in the last patch of darkness, and I know that my parents will soon be awake, preparing to get me up for another day of kindergarten. I dash up the stairs quickly, lightly, as only a child can. I take off my slippers and slide back under my covers, enveloped by warmth. Ten minutes later, my mom comes into my room to wake me up. Under my cat blanket, my toes are still tingling from the frost. My dad, clad in hopelessly unstylish sweatpants and matted hair, yawns as he heads toward the backyard to get something out of the garage. He stops at the door. The key is not on the hook by the side of the door, and has somehow made its way into the keyhole of the shiny brass knob. “Kathy?” he says to my mom as she pulls a bagel from the freezer, a puzzled look on his face. “Did you forget to lock the back door last night?” I nudge my dirt-caked slippers a little further under my bed and smile.
November, 1991. It’s 6:00am. The ancient floor heater coughs to life and fills the house with radiant warmth and the smell of smoldering dust. I peek over the top of my soft, thick blanket, the one with the line of cats in pink tutus parading across the plushy fabric. Through the window, I see the sun, barely nudging out over the horizon, casting a long thin wedge of light onto the sill. Slowly, I pry myself from the warmth of my bed. Veritable menageries of stuffed animals tumble after me. I freeze. Did anyone hear? No. My dad won’t leave for work until later, and he’s still snoring away in the room down the hall. My mom is there too, and in response to the said snoring has fitted herself with earplugs that deafen even a mother’s normally superhuman senses. I slip on the fuzzy purple slippers I keep under my bed. The bottoms are caked with dirt, evidence that this ritual has been performed many times before. I don’t bother with a jacket. It’s below freezing out there and I know it, but the cold is part of the adventure. The bulky pink parka that I so despise lies crumpled on the floor, forgotten. Slowly, into the back room, I slip the key into the back door. The lock turns. Click. A quick look back. No one is there. The heater gurgles along contentedly. My dad’s snores float faintly through the walls. I open the door and step out onto the porch. The cold hits me like truck. It is twenty eight degrees, and I am standing outside in my Disney princess nightgown, alone. I make my way into the backyard. I don’t have any particular destination. I stop and bend to stroke the soft blades of grass, covered with a thick, sharp frost. I savor the sensations-cold, soft, thick, bumpy, hard. Autumn birds begin to sing, I can almost see their calls spiraling through the air. My breath comes out in puffs of vapor, like a dragon. I see the sun. It is getting stronger now. Rays shoot up on the horizon, a froth of pink and orange burns the sky. Colors unlike anything else, colors they didn’t teach you about in preschool, that aren’t included in the standard box of crayons. Slowly, the yard becomes illuminated, bit by bit, as the sun stretches out its tendrils and the earth inches along its orbit. Soon I am standing in the last patch of darkness, and I know that my parents will soon be awake, preparing to get me up for another day of kindergarten. I dash up the stairs quickly, lightly, as only a child can. I take off my slippers and slide back under my covers, enveloped by warmth. Ten minutes later, my mom comes into my room to wake me up. Under my cat blanket, my toes are still tingling from the frost. My dad, clad in hopelessly unstylish sweatpants and matted hair, yawns as he heads toward the backyard to get something out of the garage. He stops at the door. The key is not on the hook by the side of the door, and has somehow made its way into the keyhole of the shiny brass knob. “Kathy?” he says to my mom as she pulls a bagel from the freezer, a puzzled look on his face. “Did you forget to lock the back door last night?” I nudge my dirt-caked slippers a little further under my bed and smile.