Scrapbook

"Vintage Wedding Scrapbook." Web log post. Mutated Musings. Mutated Musings, 27 Sept. 2011. Web. 23 Jan. 2015.

Dying of boredom, I decided to scavenge around our house for something to occupy my mind with. My eyes scanned the room for anything relatively interesting but, I found nothing. I’ll just go back to sleep, I thought to myself. That was until my eye caught a glimpse of the dusty scrapbook, camouflaged among the rows of books displayed on the shelf. I remember my mom slaving over this scrapbook, trying as hard as she could to make it look like we lived the perfect American dream. Even though she dedicated so much time on perfecting the scrapbook, I never got a chance to look at it. I shuffled over to the shelf, tugged it out and blew off the layer of dust that had gathered on it over the years. “Amber Thompson,” read the cover. I flipped open the scrapbook and began admiring the intricate way my mom had assembled this memory book. A sharp feeling of nostalgia soon rushed over me. Photographs of when we visited Disneyland Orlando, beach days, the Grand Canyon, and baby pictures of me with relatives that I can’t even remember, all arranged in chronological order. At every turn of a page I saw myself grow older and older. “Amber on her first day of third grade,” read the caption of one ancient looking picture. I quickly recalled that day. It was one of the most horrifying days of my life. Images began to flood my mind of the colossal, cool kids smacking my lunch onto the cold, linoleum lunch floor. I tried so hard to suppress that traumatic memory, and it had worked until now. They thought they broke me, but in seventh grade, they learned that revenge was a dangerous game to play. It cost me three weeks of after-school detention, but God it was worth it. I snapped back into present day and tried to forget about when I was a bullied nine year old. I continued to flip through the pages of pictures. Fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth grades all went by so quickly as I turned page by page. There were photographs of my fourteenth birthday party, one of the best days of my life. I would do anything to go back to that magical day. I began to see the pictures of  last week’s middle school graduation. It seemed so long ago. I took a look at the book and noticed that there were still several more pages in the scrapbook left. What else could possibly be in here? I flipped to the next page and saw pictures of a funeral. Masses of crying faces and people dressed in all black: a depressing burial scene with fitting weather. I don’t remember this. Was this a long time ago? No it couldn’t be. My mom and dad look older in these pictures. I kept examining the pictures and that’s when I saw the gravestone. “With love we remember, Amber Thompson. 1999- 2013.”

A Cup of Water

All I wanted was a cup of water. A cup full of water. I didn't enjoy  seeing people glare and make faces at me while I stood up to get it. They were so rude to me as if I did something outrageous. Something so dangerous that has never been done before been done. I think that they are all crazy. Just like every old person in this room. As I started to make my way to my  destination, people's expressions started  to change. They were horrified by what they saw. Some even tried to warn me by yelling with despair in their voices. Others tried to hold me back. But I wasn't going to let a few ugly faces and yells stop me from getting what I wanted. My throat started to burn so I quickened walked faster to relive the pain. All I could think of was that  every step got me closer to an ice-cold cup of water. The other passengers on the plane made  hurtful comments and I ignored them. If only I would have listened to their comments, I would still be alive today. If only I would have let them stop me from  heading towards that water fountain, I wouldn't have gotten a bacterial infection, and would have made it to my  daughter's wedding. If only I would of listened.

Nes, Alique Van. Impacts of Climate Change on Water Supply and Health. Digital image.IWRM as a Tool for Adaptation to Climate Change. Www.thewaterchannel.tv, n.d. Web. 09 Dec. 2013.

Glory Days

 I was in my teens when my dad began telling me about his youth. We sat down together every once in a while in my bedroom and he talked about his life at my age. He spoke of the excitement and fun he lived back when he was my age. He’d talked about it so much that I almost grew annoyed of it. It seemed as if every time we sat down to talk heart to heart he talked about his supposed glory days. His eyes wandered as he told his stories and they sparked a mischievous spark before their flame would go out and lock with my eyes as if reminding himself that those days were over and he was married to my mother. It was the same when we would listen to my grandmother every summer when visiting. Grans would reveal old memories with the same gleam in her eye as my father did but her flame would never extinguish.  Rather it blazed on as she grew fonder of her youthful memories in her old age. I almost sensed desperation in her to relive those memories. It appeared to me as if with every day she grew older and more incapable she longed more for her youth. She longed for the thrill of the first touch of her first lover. She longed to run with her dogs Beepee and Fo on her father’s ranch. Her bones had grown too weak to ride and gallop on horseback and to feel the power in the steed’s stride. She felt forlorn by youth as she reached her 72^nd birthday. It was obvious that her reflection was the only thing that kept her calm, mature, sulky and sad. I could tell by Papa’s look that she was only in her happy moods when we were around because we were a living picture of who she used to be.

            Papa himself had never once peeped a sound about the days before he’d married Grans. Every summer I’d urge him to tell something but he would simply say no and grow moody and distraught for a moment. There was a past behind the large glasses sitting in the lazy-boy chair that I believe not even my mother knows about to this day. My grandfather never seemed to trust anyone my age including me and my sisters. I always wanted to grow closer to Papa. His history I believed was highly intriguing even though I’d never heard a word about it but “no”. One day after I’d urged him again, he finally said more than his traditional syllable.

            “Son, by telling you no, haven’t I said enough? What do you want with my history of mistakes and pain? I always hated history class, because it distracted you from the now. I’m glad to be 76 years old. I have earned every snow white hair left on this head. You want me to tell you about the time at summer camp when I was fifteen? Well instead I’ll tell you about last week when I was serving food at Jim Plummer’s Soup Kitchen. I’ll tell you about the smiles on those peoples’ faces but I’m not going to tell you about the time I got into mischief. It’s not cute or funny. It’s just flat out stupid and doesn’t help anybody.”

            With that he sat back in his chair and opened up his newspaper.

 

 Safura, Mardiahtul. "Newspaper Man." blogspot.com. Mardiahtul Safura, n.d. Web.
     5 Dec. 2013. <http://mylovelyjj.blogspot.co.il/>.