There's nothing I've written so far that would require anyone to jump up and down in excitement and call the gates of the publishing industry with the next best seller, but I like the practice.
I almost talked myself out of publishing this stuff on my blog, but I'm in a sharing mood and I'll show my small, but loyal blogging world (aka: Mom) some things I put on paper.
Here we go:
Boot
“Maryanne, I told you to pick up those arrows!”
My mother’s stern voice called out to me.
I nearly jumped when I heard her no-nonsense tone. I was busy reading in my room and tried to remember what I was doing before I immersed myself in my book.
“I already did it!” I countered back.
“They’re still out there! Go pick them up!”
I put my book down and walked downstairs to meet the stare of my irritated mother.
“But I did it already.”
I looked to my dad sitting at the kitchen table for support. He didn’t say anything but his expression showed he didn’t believe me. It was clear whose side he was on.
The ‘I did it’ defense was not working. The evidence was against me and there were no witnesses to take the stand. Life wasn’t fair for a ten-year-old.
“Go pick them up,” she said one last and final time.
Resolved to my injustice, I sighed with great drama that only a kid could muster and headed out to the side porch, forcefully shutting the door behind me.
Besides the door, an array of shoes, boots and sandals were neatly stacked side-by-side along the wall under the window. I passed by my sneakers and slipped into my dad’s boots instead. The boots were huge compared to my own feet and I clip-clopped my way out the door to the backyard.
My mother was correct. The target was out and the arrows were scattered about the lawn. She didn’t notice my brother’s smaller bow lying besides the arrows while my bow was absent. This made me angry. The accusation was towards me and, all along, I was innocent of the crime.
I went back inside and vented my frustrations by kicking the loose boots against the wall. The first boot slammed into the wall with a satisfying ‘BANG.’
The second, however, wasn’t satisfying at all. Instead of whacking the wall next to its match, it flew too high and I watched in horror as it crashed through the window.
I stood agape at the large hole in what was once a whole pane of glass. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t comprehend.
That’s when I noticed my parents at the door as they took in what happened. It wouldn’t be difficult to add the math. Broken window plus absent boot plus one shocked kid equals trouble.
I did what any respectable ten-year-old girl would do in this situation: the tears started coming and I started apologizing.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I kept repeating as my mother gathering me into her arms. “I’m sooorry.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” she told me. “It was an accident.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll pay it back. I promise. I’m so sorry.”
My dad inspected the damage while being careful of any broken glass on the floor. “There’s no harm. We’ll get it fixed.”
For my punishment, my parents presented the bill for the cost of the glass which I gladly paid.
And the moral I learned that day is that it’s easy to get mad. It’s harder to repair the damage from getting mad.
Especially when it’s a window.
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