boisterous bird songs punctuate
the humming traffic
This weekend’s prompt comes from Hello, Cheney, whose lapse in memory was a happy accident for us. This weekend we’re asking you to harken back to your grade school days and write a haiku. No word restrictions, just stick to the structure as defined below.
: an unrhymed verse form of Japanese origin having three lines containing usually five, seven, and five syllables respectively
– See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.bDjqwhhu.dpuf
For years I saw him walk past our house with his mother. He was older than me but I never saw him by himself or go to school. Sometimes his siblings would walk along with him but his mother would always be there too.
Back then, the term used was ‘mongoloid’, a word that puzzled me. We knew nothing about the disorder, why it had that name or what the symptoms were. It wasn’t until I was in secondary school that I learned about the condition and its proper name.
We lived in a village on the outskirts of a small rural town. It was a place where religion and superstition lived hand in hand; where transgressions and gossip were as significant in people’s lives as their daily bread.
It was unusual then, for a disabled child to live at home rather than in an institution but his mother was determined to keep him with her despite the criticism and pressure from family and neighbours. She got on with her life, raising several children and doing the hard work that women in villages had to do. She learned to live with the stares, the whispers and the hurtful remarks. Eventually as the years passed, mother and son became a common sight and they were left alone.
In time his brothers and sisters left home and his father died. But still, as late as his forties, he and his mother would go for their walks. They always walked at the same pace; she dressed in black, old and hunched, slightly ahead; him close by, always at the same distance, always looking just ahead. I never saw them talk to each other but whenever they passed someone he would always say the same words “what time is it?’
I used to wonder what would happen to him if his mother died first but I learned some time ago that he was the first to go.
My visual response to today’s Daily Prompt:
Photographers, artists, poets: show us HAPHAZARD.
Roaring fires and mulled wine
Buds and chirping birds
Radiant green hues
Light and shadows
Explosion of colour
Anticipation of snow
This was written for this weekend’s Trifextra challenge.
This weekend’s prompt is to write 33 words exactly inspired by the following photo project by Eirik Solheim. Each slice of the photo compilation is a different day of the year, taken from the same location. – See more at:
I remember the trauma of losing my milk teeth. When the first one became loose my parents checked it regularly to see when it was ready to be pulled. When they deemed it ready, dad pulled it out. That was a very traumatic experience and after it I refused to let him touch my teeth.
My parents seemed to have a strong fear of me swallowing a tooth in my sleep and kept insisting on checking them.
Eventually we reached a compromise – a string would be attached around the tooth and then to a door handle – dad would pull the door and with that the tooth would come out. How that was different from my dad pulling it with his fingers I don’t know but somehow in my mind, it was better and that is how most of my teeth were pulled out.
Check out the Weekly Writing Challenge post.
* This memory was triggered by this weekend’s Trifextra prompt which was the word tooth.