Who was your first childhood crush? What would you say to that person if you saw him/her again?
My very first crush came in the figure of a poster. I adored him from thousands of miles away, through the small handkerchief sized screen of a black and white television.
He was Thomas Sankara; Burkina Faso’s late revolutionary leader. His calendar post hung on the wall, where his imaginary words turned me into a renegade princess. Unfortunately, I was still too young when he died and I never got the chance to flutter my eyelashes at him.
Then came the second crush, who lived in the neighborhood. He was not quite as handsome but fairly manageable too.
He never knew I had a teen crush on him and when I ran into him several years ago, not a missed heartbeat or flutter did my heart suffer. For some reason, I kept staring at the balding shiny patch of his head, since I stood several good inches taller, trying to figure out what it was that had kept my young heart crushing. I couldn’t remember.
We exchanged pleasantries and went our merry ways. Me and my brood of kids and him with his bulging briefcase to do what it was that he did.
I peer up at the doctor in his protective gears with anxious eyes, dreading the worst.
I can’t quite define the emotions in his eyes; the transparent plague mask seems to disassociate him from warmer expressions and he tut tutted yet again.
“Say aarrghh,” he requests. His vocals come out a bit wobbly through the thick surgical mask.
I oblige willingly. Sticking my tongue out as far as I can. Anything to get rid of the plaguing ailment will do.
A poke here, a prod there, several vials of blood and muted instructions to nurses who are equally garbed like they are all ready to take off on a jaunt to Mars; they all shake their heads.
“What?” I ask through hot, parched lips?
”Am I dying?” I brace myself for a heart-stopping, gut wrenching response.
”I am not ready to die now,” I start protesting to my audience who peered at me like a new specimen for study.
Then came the blissful words of the doctor in the mask.
“No ma’am .” “You are not dying, but you have a very contagious infection called bogusmogusoperansuswhatamacallit.” “This is a very viral blah, blah, and can be fatal if not well managed.” You will be fine in a month with the right amount of treatment, but I am sorry you will have to remain quarantined here in the hospital for the required month.”
I feel too elated to nag or to worry. I feel extreme gratitude to learn that it is just a passing virus. That I still have a chance to live.
“Can I have my writing materials?” I ask hesitantly. Willing him to say yes with the power of my mind
“Of course yes you can ma’am” he answers politely. I imagine that his lips move in a smile.
My gratitude is complete. A month of solitude. Time to churn out that book, my agile mind picks up its trail of thought for my novel.
I love spontaneity, which I try to limit to my shopping,writing and other fluffy things of life. In such times, my guts have stood the test of time.
However, in contradiction, I don’t like guessing games when it gets to the crunch time of making a serious decision.
I sit down wherever I find myself, with my note pad and pencil (never too far from me) I run the pros and cons, think and rethink before making a decision.
If I don’t have my writing material handy, who knows, I might resort to reciting Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe on my fingers and thinking the decision to death.
Eeny: Decisions, decisions
Meeny: weigh Pros on fingers
Miny: weigh Cons on fingers
Moe: Catch the Tiger by the Tail (and hope it doesn’t bite me).
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Forever Young.”
An involuntary whimper of despair escaped her glistening, vivid red lips;
Pursed in a pout as she stared balefully at the woman in the mirror;
An inordinate amount of gray had sprouted on a temple formally adorned with jet black;
The thinning patch getting more difficult to disguise;
The fine crinkled lines around the eyes, told tales of years spent and gone;
Yet her dilated pupils shone in wisdom and merry delight;
She loved life;
A bit too much;
Age had not been in the equation;
Yet it knocked on the door;
Each day, unfailingly, it came visiting;
Stretching the pout, from one side to the other;
An attempt to soften the stern look inserted by faint grooves around her lips;
Her fingers shook as she dabbed on more cover;
The girl she was before, long gone, nowhere to be found;
But it was just yesterday;
She mused in her mind;
Yesterday, her mind reminisced;
My Sweet Sixteen;
I danced with careless abandon;
The Bubbling Belle of the Ball;
The years stretched ahead;
To eternity and beyond;
And time stood still;
When he finally kissed her lips;
Alas! Age struck! Taking them all along;
But she wanted to dance again;
Just once, Just once, at sixteen;
What if? She eyed the bottle in curiosity and disdain;
A little sip could straighten the gnarled hands and feet?
Would the rosiness of her cheeks replace the gaunt face in the mirror?
Would it adjust the feelings of her heart?
Or erase the memories of her mind?
A heart that has stretched in love for decades and more;
His shuffled steps broke through her thoughts;
“Your coat, my darling”, He said;
Lovingly and slowly he wrapped her in his warmth;
Their eyes clung to each other in the mirror;
The wrinkles, the grays, the warts and all;
But all they saw was the love and friendship that stood through it all;
Then she smiled;
Letting the elixir of love take her away;
As the promise of Immortality splashed and dripped down the drain.
a cooking pot and twisted tales 