What? Participating. I feel like I keep having to start-up again, but at least I’ve always got some great prompts to start the gears turning. Check out the rest of the responses at the link below, and add your own:
Also check out the artist AquaSixio, otherwise known as Cyril Rolando. His work is below, one of many works of art painting a picture of a story I want to know more of. What I love about this particular piece is the eerie colour of the scene, and the way it makes me wonder if this person is running away from something or towards something. Either way, sometimes making a choice, right or wrong, can feel like leaping from a moving train. The artist also includes a piece of writing that perfectly describes that stagnation of routine, the reward of jumping from the train. Read it at Train Train Quoditien.
My mother spent her life on scraps, collecting the discarded leftovers of other peoples’ lives and putting them together in new ways. I spent my childhood desperate for the things that others took for granted. Patches disguised the holes in my jeans from everyone but me, and the hand-made cardigan wasn’t at all like the GAP sweatshirts of my peers.
Just once, I begged, just once might I have a blanket all in one tone? Monochrome, I pled, to the bafflement of my family. New.
I rejected the colours, the patterns, recycling and making do. I ran away to the real world, and relished my drab wardrobe, cookie cutter condo and processed foods. I became the happiest of cogs in the machine.
I met a perfectly ordinary girl and fell in love with her family’s staid ways, the generations of suburbanites and shiny new IKEA furniture.
My fiancée forced a strained smile and gave me a sidelong glance when I introduced my mother in her draped shawls and bangles, and I felt embarrassment. My mother’s eyes sparkled with pride and love.
My bright-coloured family capered and laughed and drank, young and old dancing late into the night in celebration of my wedding to this woman they’d never met, in celebration of my future happiness. A reminder of my fond memories of home on the open road, each wedding, funeral or crossing of paths a reason for joyous revelry. My family brought us gifts handcrafted and brimming with love and pride.
I shouldn’t have been surprised when my new wife suggested that their gifts would fit best in our storage locker. I was surprised I hadn’t suggested it myself.
But not the quilt, I said, stroking the colourful tree my mother had hand-sewn for us, a symbol of good fortune and happiness in marriage. Every leaf stitched with a member of my family and hers, with room for new additions. My wife gave me a strange look out of the corner of her eye and pressed her lips together.
Her mother had gotten the burnt umber bedspread on our registry. Had no one in my family thought to look on the registry? She clucked her displeasure at their selfishness in denying us a KitchenAid stand mixer in taupe, and I looked at this stranger and questioned myself.
I tucked it away in my closet and brooded. I wondered if I’d actually intentionally bought 4 pairs of near-identical navy slacks. Why I ate so many beige foods. She, meanwhile, cut her eyes in disapproval of the introduction of brightly coloured dress-shirts into my wardrobe.
We scheduled date night in the same way as we scheduled dental work and with as much enthusiasm. Every moment of my parents’ lives was a breathless run through the deluge of their affection for each other and for life.
When she left me, my first thought was for my mother’s quilt. I took it down, spread it out and smiled. My family spread out in beautiful chaos, with blank spaces for my future wife, her family and room to grow. My mother spent her life taking up the discarded pieces and putting them together anew.
I left with only the necessities, including a vibrant purple shirt in need of mending.