From my writers' workshop with Albert Flynn DeSilver:
Breathe in. Breathe out. I can hear it, feel it. The air around me is thick with awareness. My scalp tingles. Breathe in. And I am there again. Muscle memory sweeps me back 55 years. I am here in my friend Eileen’s basement with her sisters, Maureen and Kathleen. They are a closed sister-circle, but because my name sounds like theirs, I am allowed to hover nearby on some lesser rung of heaven. Breathe out. The basement is dark, almost dusky, in the heat of a summer afternoon. The three sisters are playing house, and I am given the role of dog or baby, I don’t remember which, but the role is the same. I am to lie motionless and silent on a musty, moss green army cot. Breathe in. And so I do, listening, eyes closed, as the girls scrape chairs away from a half-size table. A bumping and clatter of tiny porcelain teacups pulls at my attention. Breathe out. I know what they’re doing. Cookies are cracked into small bits that will fit on miniature plates. The cups, like thimbles, are filled to over-brimming with sweetened, condensed milk. Breathe in. I am not part of this feast. The sisters bicker and giggle about the goings-on of their make believe family. Breathe out. I am forgotten, curled into an unthinking nautilus, taking in the sounds and letting them go. Breathe in. I smell the dank basement; feel the stiff, still cot and the warm elemental knowingness of being alive. Like a snapshot, I know I will look back on this moment and remember it always. Breathe out. I hover, detached, loving these three sisters, aware that I am separate and alive. But, as it turns out, I don’t remember the day, and that haunting feeling fades, pooled with so many others until just now. Breathe in. The gong sounds and reverberates in concentric circles. I am back in this sunny, open room, surrounded by adults. One is talking. I look around. Many are smiling. I am here and now. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out. I can hear it, feel it. The air around me is thick with awareness. My scalp tingles. Breathe in. And I am there again. Muscle memory sweeps me back 55 years. I am here in my friend Eileen’s basement with her sisters, Maureen and Kathleen. They are a closed sister-circle, but because my name sounds like theirs, I am allowed to hover nearby on some lesser rung of heaven. Breathe out. The basement is dark, almost dusky, in the heat of a summer afternoon. The three sisters are playing house, and I am given the role of dog or baby, I don’t remember which, but the role is the same. I am to lie motionless and silent on a musty, moss green army cot. Breathe in. And so I do, listening, eyes closed, as the girls scrape chairs away from a half-size table. A bumping and clatter of tiny porcelain teacups pulls at my attention. Breathe out. I know what they’re doing. Cookies are cracked into small bits that will fit on miniature plates. The cups, like thimbles, are filled to over-brimming with sweetened, condensed milk. Breathe in. I am not part of this feast. The sisters bicker and giggle about the goings-on of their make believe family. Breathe out. I am forgotten, curled into an unthinking nautilus, taking in the sounds and letting them go. Breathe in. I smell the dank basement; feel the stiff, still cot and the warm elemental knowingness of being alive. Like a snapshot, I know I will look back on this moment and remember it always. Breathe out. I hover, detached, loving these three sisters, aware that I am separate and alive. But, as it turns out, I don’t remember the day, and that haunting feeling fades, pooled with so many others until just now. Breathe in. The gong sounds and reverberates in concentric circles. I am back in this sunny, open room, surrounded by adults. One is talking. I look around. Many are smiling. I am here and now. Breathe out.
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