Rebecca’s Gift
writings by rebecca j. gordon christmas 2013
rebecca’s gift |
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warm and dazzling so
and smelling of some sweet
perfume
The Beauty Queen
it seems like centuries ago now when I would
sit hunched over, watching the mulch chips come creeping up only to run away seconds later as the swing wined back and forth with my tiny form entertaining thoughts of flying or chasing some boy across the playground. It was that time of day again, and I loved those swings. Mom would be there soon. Eventually, I saw her come walking up, making eye contact with me and smiling broadly. Yes, I was her baby girl. Today was different, though. She was accompanied by someone else, but who? I continued to stare as this peculiar individual moved around her. Grandma! I leapt out of that swing and ran for the gate. She was there! I didn’t know she was coming! All I had to do was gaze into her smiling face and her pearly curls, and I would be so excited. She was always so warm and dazzling and smelling of some sweet perfume, and I loved nothing more than to crawl into her arms and simply listen to her talk or hum softly. Though I have grown since those days, I still see the same light that shines from within her with such fierce love, chiming away with the importance of thinking highly of oneself and living every day with a new burst of enthusiasm. She is the picture of beauty and confidence, winning hearts with every head tilt and sweet smile. My grandma, the beauty queen.
rebecca’s gift |
3
The Man with the Napkin
as hard as i tried , as many times as I tied and
folded the limp encasement of my silver ware, it was coming to nothing. Only he could breathe life into it, only he could make it dance, inducing laughter and entertainment. Yes, and I loved to watch him do it. A good friend of mine once said that he encouraged his father to pick up guitar due to the admiration he had for his son’s musical skills. However, his father simply said that he would much rather enjoy his talent. Folding a napkin into a small creature that would miraculously run up your arm was probably something that perhaps any skilled adult could do, but it would have been nothing like my grandfather’s tiny creation. He was and remains filled with a joy that no one else can truly muster, and he imparts it to everything he touches. Being a small child, following his actions intently at the dinner table, his imagination and mischief made everything that much better. He could capture a room full of strangers and sleeping boredom simply with his enthusiasm. He even showed me how to fold the napkin and how to make it crawl up the arm, but it wasn’t the same, and I didn’t expect it to be. Whether he would admit it or not, my childlike intuition knew that he had some sort of magic power that made the napkin crawl. It was in his eyes, his music, his life. My grandpa.
First Impressions
i raised my eyes briefly from the menu and
watched as color filled portions of the simple white sheet across the table. The colors began to form shapes. A small green leaf became something elaborate and beautiful. The memory is as clear as if I were staring at it right now in this present moment, the old copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer resting in my hands as I shuffled along on the sidewalk behind my parents moments earlier. I carried a book everywhere I went those days, as if I were afraid to face moments of true, die-hard boredom leaving me to my own devices. I had a world to myself, an escape, in a book. Yes, I was a true Don Quixote crammed into a pint-sized eleven-year-old girl, even in restaurants, even now when I met her. I eyed it a couple of times debating about opening it, but this moment was important. She was important. It’s a simple moment, but it sticks out so strongly in my mind, watching her color that leaf, making something magnificent with nothing but an old green crayon. In reality, it was probably something that anyone could have done, but it wouldn’t have been the same. It was filled with soul, animation, and care that only she could give. I don’t even remember the conversation from that night, only the leaf, an impression of everything she was from that moment: my aunt Julie.
rebecca’s gift |
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The Man Who Could Fix Everything
i breathed in the familiar smell of dorm
life, setting my mind toward the next semester. Catching a glimpse of the trees swaying outside my window and my two best friends as they also settled back in, I tried to swallow my tears. In truth , I loved this place. I loved my bunk bed, my desk, my roommate, and the milk stain we had laid to rest on our carpet. I just hated to watch him go. This man that I clung to when I was small, the one with all the answers to every silly question I could muster as a child, the man who could fix everything. I shared commonalities with both of my parents. I could know what he was thinking simply by looking him in the eyes, and I honestly felt that he understood me too. He never interfered as I cried on that long trip back to school, and he only made comments when I asked when I would finally feel at home in Asheville or when he tried to cheer me up with his music and his appreciation of different radio stations. Now here we stood outside my dorm while I said something quickly to my roommate before walking back down to his truck, but before we could start walking he hugged me quickly and hurried down the hall. I yelled bye to him as he turned around revealing the only tear I had ever see him cry. I love my
dad.
The Hand I Could Count On
the cars lulled along the road in the late
afternoon traffic, dancing within their autopilot schedules, giving no thought to direction or the ever present possibility of wondering off course. In the midst of this, lost like a fish in a rapid tide, was me. In that sense it was like every other day for this college junior, feeling her way through the cloud in hopes of getting to see the sunlight of clear goals and the yellow brick road lined with steps of promise. Where was the restaurant? It seemed that my gps was like a man leading a horse to water, knowing that sadly it could only lead the dubious animal but so far. Finally, I pulled into the parking lot. In reality, I didn’t care about getting to the restaurant. I can’t even remember being terribly hungry. I just wanted to see her, the hand I could always count on to catch me along this sketchy road: my mom. Lunch with her was never just lunch, and it was never about food for me. It was about warm, comforting hugs, and being able to exchange thoughts and frustration with the one person whom, whether I would willingly admit it or not depending on the day, knew exactly what I was going through. It was about listening to her voice and seeing the look in her eyes that had been there since I was small. It was about longing to freeze time. Moments with my mom are priceless.
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He was the life of every family get together, every trip to the fair, . every
prank
He Hung the Moon
though hours can go by like seconds as
I sit at my desk finalizing a project for school, it would go by like days in my childhood as I stared at the clock, waiting for him to arrive. Then he would, and he would throw me in the air and walk around the house as I clung tightly to his back. He hung the moon. I wanted to be just like him. Everyone told me that I was like him in the way I worried and cared too much about things. I wanted to make people laugh the way he did and fly planes, seeing all the sea creatures from high above like in his stories. I lived for days spent with my Uncle Chuck floating across the lake in a canoe, being drawn by the wind fighting against an umbrella gripped tightly in his hands. We would always be up for such adventures, even taking to the skies as I gripped the controls tightly in my tiny hands as his co-pilot, baring my braces in such excitement. He was the life of every family get together, every trip to the fair, every prank. Running down the hallway of a hospital late at night, culminating in a calming moment as I peered over my dad’s shoulder at my baby niece resting in his arms, I wanted to be everything to her that he was to me. He hung the moon and he still does.
rebecca’s gift |
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co-captainsfor life
My Best Friend
garrison
i have since enjoyed many Saturday
entertainments, such as stumbling down the streets of Asheville, or watching a movie over pizza and conversations with two of my best friends, but little comes to mind that compares with the numerous Saturdays spent with him. Yes, such memories remain as delightful pictures of days of overalls and hesitantly moving through the woods to a fallen tree we would make into a ship. We would be captains aboard a vessel toward a clearing full of delightful specimen that would be our swords and other defenses. Oh, how we laughed and ran, prancing around the woods through our youthful entertainment. It was something we did only once, though hiding our swords in the bushes for another adventurous day. Other Satur days would leave us tucked into our delightful play room, racing across worlds of color and obstacles that only a game cube could offer. Still others would leave us stuck to our bean bag chairs, munching on old Halloween candy watching our favorite show. Late night rooftop adventures with friends would follow, along with cookout milkshakes, ending with something we could always count on: episodes upon episodes of our favorite friends. They all lay in a space between us through texts exchanged over the expanse of the distance between our lives at school and goofy expressions over Skype. It all culminates in the best of hugs when we are finally reunited if only for a few days. Co-captains for life. My best friend. rebecca’s gift |
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designed with love by aunt julie | 1.2014