“Unanswered” Kieran Noback – Honorable Mention I’m originally from Wyoming, and back then, I knew everyone at school and life felt comfortably predictable. Back then, my family was whole. My mom and dad worked hard in our small town’s hospital; scrubs and the scent of chemicals wafting through the door as they came home was common. They were certainly kept busy, but in between shifts my parents made time for us. I still remember the nights our father read to my brother and me, the soft amber glow of the living room lamp illuminating our enraptured faces as the gentle tones of his voice guided us down the path of story after story. Mom and Dad took turns reading to us, occasionally delving into something a little more realistic, but my brother and I always preferred fantasy. Thus, the shelves of our home became lined with Harry Potter, Eragon, Lord of the Rings, and countless others. But time with our parents was not always quietly spent indoors. We had an acre of land which had to be maintained. Every summer, Mom armed us with oversized leather gloves and heavy jeans and put us to work. Ripping fallen tree branches from their beds of grass allowed Mom, atop her rumbling behemoth of a riding lawnmower, to obliterate the tall ranks of grass threatening to swallow the old oaks behind the house. Weed whackers in our small hands then dispatched what little grass escaped the mower’s blades. Along with this periodic maintenance, we hauled rocks and soil and planted seeds to help Mom with her landscaping and gardening. In the winters, our battle against nature was with the snow. Mom cleared the driveway by way of snow blower, but did not save us from work. Snow blown away always revealed ice, despite my prayers. Every few days, my brother Rowan and I tromped outside, tools in hand, to shatter that ice. But even through mittens, the shock of metal against ice became a familiar buzz in my arms. But I believe both my brother and I secretly enjoyed working with Mom. Her fervent passion blossomed into a beautiful flower garden, a tamed yard, and a constant influx of machinery use and time spent with her. Thus, the call of Creative Non-Fiction
Vortex
39
