Tuesday, April 12, 2011

The Things I Carry

I haven't posted here in forever. Finally, we are working on some creative writing in my Humanities block, so I was *FORCED* to write my own version of the first chapter, mirroring the book, The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien. If you've never read this book, I highly recommend it. I read it for the first time in college and fell in love with the writing. It's just beautiful...yet disturbing and sad. This book focuses on a company of men and follows them as they fight in the Vietnam War. So, here is my version of the things I carry. I love creative writing. The best part about this piece is there's a lot of truth to it...and a little fabrication...because what writer doesn't add that every once in awhile? :)

The Things I Carry

Pushing the soft, brown stroller through the crowd of shoppers with a bulky, black diaper bag strapped across her left shoulder that covers the spit up stains just so. Signs hanging in the windows scream, SALE 50% off invite her in, yet hold her back, wishing she could fit into the summer capris and cute, sequined tank tops everyone appears to be wearing. It seemed so easy pre-expandable waistbands.

The iPhone in the back pocket of her worn out jeans buzzes, signaling a message from the husband. She reads her only text of the day, then sneaks a snapshot of their babe and hits REPLY. Reeking of rotten milk, she slides a rubber band from her left wrist and reworks her over-processed hair into a ponytail, as carefully placed purple sunglasses return to sit atop her head. This was a necessity. Gazing once more at the tiny, pink bundle stirring restlessly in the carriage, although smitten, she moves quickly.

No time to think as she races to mix a bottle of powdered formula before the storm hits. BPA Free containers and burp cloths have replaced strawberry lip gloss and her favorite celery green Coach purse from Nordstrom. She yawns for the 100th time, squeezing her bloodshot eyes and shakes the bottle carefully…it is a little bit like rocket science.

She tosses a light pink kitty cat blanket over her shoulder and cradles her sweet child, like a delicate piece of art. Balancing the bottle with her chin, she sifts through the bag, guiding her hands through a jungle of diapers, wipes, onesies, pacifier pods, a bottle of Ibuprofen and teething rings in search of her leather wallet. Fingers crossed, she’s hoping for a Lincoln to purchase a beloved, yet necessary Starbucks Frap. The dark circles under her eyes tell a hundred stories all connected to late night escapades, and cause her friends to question motherhood. But she doesn’t. Not once. Well, maybe once.

Sweat trickles down her forehead; she carelessly wipes it away and produces a loud sigh. Her tired eyes whisper to her tired body that it’s time to take a nap. But there’s no time for that. Fumbling through her pocket for the pink pacifier to avoid a meltdown, she feels the tiny links between her fingers and doesn’t recognize it. Solving the mystery, she pulls out the shiny gold chain with a basketball charm hanging from it and smiles lovingly as the memories come flooding back. To shoot again. Yes, that would be nice.