Memory by Rachel

I stood in the dark kitchen, the smell of meat and gravy filling my nostrils. I could hear the two unruly dogs barking from the backyard. Grandma came through the door from the garage, a place I didn't like to go. That was where Grandpa's workshop was, a place darker than the kitchen, and reeking of smoke.
"Put your finger on this knot, Rachel," Grandma said in her raspy, smoked-for-too-many-years voice. "Push down hard so it doesn't loosen." I placed my finger on the twine knot that wrapped around the box, pushing it down hard. I didn't want to upset Grandma, I wanted her to be happy with me, to smile one of her rare smiles.
Grandma tied the bow above my finger, and at the last moment I slipped it out. "Good girl, good girl." Grandma placed the box on the counter. "I knew you would be a good helper." Then I went and sat on the old-fashioned couch, one of Grandma's hand-sewn afghans on my lap, and basked in her small, wrinkled smile.

A Step Toward Her Future by Gina

Sophia closed her laptop and leaned back in the creaky wooden chair where she had been sitting for hours. She wondered what she would do next – now that her thesis was finished. She let her mind wander through the last few years.
Sophie had dedicated her life to her education. Her professors knew that her work would always be exceptional. The librarians knew her by name. She’d read, written, copied, studied and researched her life away. Sophie used to be popular – she used to have friends. When did she decide to focus on school and exclude them? She couldn’t remember. Still lost in thought, she closed gathered her things, stood up, inhaled the wonderful, musty smell of the library one last time and walked out the door.
Sophie came through her front door with a mission. She put the teakettle on to heat and dug through her office until she found the little box where she kept names, addresses and phone numbers. The kettle began to whistle, and she hurried back to the kitchen. With a steaming mug in one hand, her phone in the other and the box tucked under her arm, Sophie settled onto her couch. Sophie covered herself with her old afghan, hoping to draw strength from all the wonderful women who had worked on and owned this afghan before her. She took a deep breath and was only faintly aware of the sound of the neighbor’s barking dog as she opened the box, pulled out a card and began to dial that once familiar phone number.

Kindle by Trish

If Kindle heard her husband's incessant knocking on the bedroom door you wouldn't know it. Her brown eyes, now swollen from so many hours of crying, stayed locked on the little green satin-covered memory box that lay tucked away on the top shelf of the bookcase in their bedroom. Although willing herself not to, she mentally thumbed through the precious memories that were safely hidden inside of it. The ultrasound photo of her baby's kicking, squirming legs. The tiny lifeless body that for five months had been inside of her and then two days had lied inside this precious box. The cards of condolences. Hospital bracelets. Her baby's footprint. Kindle's mind tenderly handled each one. Slowly, deliberately. She begged for the pangs of emptiness and longing. She prayed to feel the ache of her baby's life cut short because that pain at least seemed more beautiful and purposeful than the heated hate and anger that was now threatening to destroy her marriage. At last, she closed her eyes and willingly succumbed to the grief.
It was 1:15 in the morning when Kindle opened her eyes again. The pillow on Darrin's side of the bed was gone. She sat up and listened in the dark for signs that he might still be awake but the only thing she could hear was the faint barking of the neighborhood dogs. Carefully and quietly she peeled off the old afghan that had cocooned her these past hours and the fact that this warm, soft friend had comforted her once again was not lost to her as she slipped off the bed and out of the room.

Cedar by Iris Rosewater

It’s Thanksgiving and for some reason it seemed like a good idea to host it at my mother’s house. I’m re-evaluating this decision as I whisk around her kitchen, trying to find a decent saucepan. She has not thrown many away - I recognize a couple from when I was about 4 years old - and they have accumulated over the years, all with handles loose and cracking from one-hundred runs through the dishwasher, their Teflon coating thin, scraped, and chipping. Every lid doesn’t match or fit exactly and must have come with a pot that actually found it’s way to goodwill, or maybe that’s where they all came from… I can’t decide. I make a mental note to buy her a new set for Christmas. I sharpen all the knives I can find that aren’t slightly rusted, and take a sip of egg nog before preheating the oven.

My husband is watching football in the living room, and the dogs bark when he gets excited about a good play, which makes me laugh. My son is sitting at the table, making his fifth turkey out of construction paper, and his hands are lined with a fifth color between every finger and over every tip as he traces out a thumb-head and four hefty finger-feathers. My daughter has dragged her grandma into the spare bedroom to put her dolly down for a nap, and I can see them through the open door, gingerly tucking an old afghan under the plastic chin, the doll’s blinking eyes closed, hemmed by a thick fringe of lashes. My little girl holds her finger against her lips, shushing grandma, and then guides her, fingers wrapped tightly around a wrinkled pinky-finger, to the door on tip-toe. The kitchen is calm and I am alone in it as I poke through the cupboards to retrieve mother’s box of family recipes to prepare our holiday meal.

The recipe box is a relic from my great-grandmother. Opening the cedar lid triggers a dozen memories. I stop and lean into the scent, closing my eyes and sorting from the blur of visions… my grandmother’s round thumbs picking through the file, how heavy a cup of sugar felt to my little hands as I helped my mother make cookies, the tickle of her apron’s red ruffle brushing against my cheek. This is a magical box, I realize with reverence, carefully pulling out our family’s nurturing records. If I follow this map -if I toast the pecans for the frosted cranberry salad just right, if I put the precise amount of brown sugar on the yams and pull them out when the marshmallows have just turned from golden to brown, then I will be a little girl again with my feet dangling from my aunt’s dining room chair. I will hear my father laugh, though he left us years ago. With these little handwritten slips, spotted with flour and egg, I can resurrect our dearest ghosts. I take my selections and lay them out on the counter for reference, taking a quiet moment to compare all of our curled script on varying shades of yellowing white… the matriarchs’ collective history of family and love… tying the apron behind my neck and smoothing its dusty ruffles before I begin.

　

Afghan, barking dogs, and a box by Daniel Fear

I hope this is how this works. Here is my first post! Enjoy.

The Box. By Daniel Fear

I was wrapped snuggly under the afghan my Mother had crocheted for me. It was the best afghan in the old drafty house. The stitching was done from my three favorite colors of brown, tan and green. Mom had used a wavy pattern. I really love this afghan. I watched her for hours, as she would work on it while I was a kid. Now, I cling to it for hours at a time. It will be treasured forever and will bring me comfort only a mother can give. My Mom is now gone, but the love in the afghan still comforts me.

The weather outside was atrocious. Cold, blistery, windy, snowy, foggy, and just generally crappy! Especially for someone that craves warmer weather. What am I doing this far north? Anyway, I’m not going to go outside anytime soon, so I will stay under my afghan! I’m just going to sit here and keep watching my favorite daytime TV programs. Besides, I only watch them when I feel like this. That is, I feel so good that you could stab me in the eye with a spoon and I would think it was an improvement. The only thing making me remotely comfortable is the nice hot Constant Comment tea that just finished brewing and my two trusting dogs curled up on top of the afghan. One of them a pure-bred mutt named Honey; and the other a great and fantastic Dachshund named Prince DaShaR; or Prince for short (inherited of course, again from my Mother).

As I usually do when feeling ill and watching my favorite daytime TV, the History Channel, Science Channel and Military Channel, I was beginning to doze off when my wonderful cozy foot warmers turned into an Early Warning System – the dogs began barking endlessly! I’m not sure what they were barking at, but it was quite cacophonous and really down right annoying. They continued barking and jumping, jumping and barking, bouncing, and jumping and barking. If there had been someone dead in my house, they would have stirred…what could possibly have set them off so badly. I wasn’t expecting any visitors, especially in my current state.

After running out of throw pillows to toss at the EWS, I begrudgingly extracted myself from warmth of the afghan and the comfort of the couch to peak outside and see what was could possibly be going on. There was nothing out of place, nothing overtly disturbed, but to my surprise a small wooden box had appeared. Intricate in construction and simple in decoration, it sat neatly in the snow just off of the front step of the house. My curiosity piqued, I threw open the door danced outside, scooped up the box and launched myself back through the door hoping to move fast enough so the cold air wouldn’t be able to catch me. Man, I hate being cold!

I jumped over the back of the couch and quickly snuggled back up under the afghan. The Early Warning System had turned itself off and they had resumed the duty of cozy foot warmers as I began to stop shivering and started to puzzle over the little wooden box. Absolutely quaint in every way, I was completely puzzled by it. A plain pine box with a dark stain stared curiously up at me. There were no hinges, but it seemed to fit together like a shoebox. There was a very simple carving of a frog on the top of the box and the letters DSR were neatly etched into the bottom. This was surprising and comforting all at the same time. My Mother’s initials were D.S.R, Diana Sue Rogers (Rogers being her maiden name), and frogs were her favorite item to collect.

I found this surprising because my Mother had passed away over a year ago, a victim of cancer at the age of 54. Mom created an atmosphere of love and support all through my childhood for my brothers and I. That sense of love and support has continued into our adult hood. She had been a solid partner for my father and a devout Christian. Her love has continued to amaze me over the past 14 months and will continue to give me the same strength for the rest of my life. So, to find this small token that appeared to be from my mother was quite unexpected. This little box brought an instant sense of comfort.

I decided that I needed to open this little box, so I did. Inside I found a piece of paper neatly folded to fit perfectly inside. I carefully pulled it out and tenderly unfolded it. The paper was aged and discolored. It had frogs and roses stenciled along the edge as a border. Inside that border written in my Mom’s script was a letter, with no date, but addressed to my daughter and me. Yep, my daughter! She is a precocious two, and my Mother had the privilege of spoiling her for nearly 18 months. During that short amount of time at such an early age for my daughter, she created that same sense of love and support that I had shared with Mom. They were wonderful moments to watch!

This is what I read:

To my Son and Granddaughter:

I love you both more than can be measured. You will have fun learning from each other while you both continue on your paths.

Son, always remember that patience is the most important part of raising a child. When that little girl is destroying the house, remember to first smile, breathe and then put things back together.

Granddaughter, I love you and had hoped to teach you all the things that a Grandmother is supposed to teach a grandchild, but I’m not going to get that opportunity. Just always remember that I love you!

With all of my love forever,

Mom and Nana

I no longer felt as ill as I had earlier in the day. Now I couldn’t wait for the end of the day when my daughter would come home and I would be able share this new discovery with her. The laughter and joy we would share this afternoon will make my Mom smile down on us. Even with her gone from day to day life, she still knows how to make me feel better.

Three Random Things by Trish

Okay fellow writers, let's see what we can do. My three random things you are to include in your next creative writing piece are:

1. an old afghan
2. the sound of barking dogs
3. a box (the type of box is your choice, be creative!)

Good luck! I can't wait to see what we all come up with!

The Box by Iris Rosewater

Lynne finished the last of the dishes alone in the kitchen. She hadn’t bothered to put on the yellow rubber gloves under the sink, and found herself regretting it as the hot water and soap burned into the cracks in her overworked hands. So happy to finally have a moment to herself, forcing no reverent smiles and accepting no more pitiful hugs, engaged in something mindless, she dove in without taking the precaution. It wasn’t working as well as she’d hoped, however. Thoughts were still creeping in. Since the dishes hadn’t done the trick, she started tidying the whole kitchen, scrubbing the crusty brown ring around the base of the faucet with an old toothbrush, sweeping, condensing into plastic containers the leftover array of casseroles and gelatin salads with bits of carrot and fruit suspended inside. The broken skin on her hands stung as she worked, asking her to stop with each forceful scrub and scrape, begging for a healing balm and some rest. She ignored it and kept on. She painstakingly picked and peeled off a grubby piece of ancient scotch tape leftover from someone’s artwork on the fridge… found her little boy’s boot, caked with mud, under some empty paper bags at the bottom of the pantry and threw it away in disgust, crushing it into the overfilled trash can.
　
　
Her hands hung at her sides, weighted down by trash bags filled with sympathy cards and used paper plates and dried up bouquets of flowers, as she walked into the mud room. Out of habit and without looking, she stuck her feet into the shoes nearest the back door. They slid on easily, loose on her feet as she shuffled into the crisp night air. Then, realizing whose shoes she wore, she stopped halfway down the driveway, dropping the bags on the frozen ground, and looked at her feet. Derrick’s favorite running shoes seemed to look up at her. Her bare feet shook them loose and she pranced inside on the balls of her feet. It was irrational, she knew, to be angry, and she was angry at herself for feeling it, but there it was, gnawing at her insides. “I’m alone, Derek. What am I supposed to do now?” She asked the empty living room. It was silent. Her children were staying at a friend’s house for the night. Why do people take away all your distractions and try to stuff you with food when someone dies? she wondered irritably, flinging off her coat. Lynne flopped onto the couch and grabbed the remote control, filling the room with the noise of tinny laughter and closed her eyes. It stopped abruptly. Her eyes opened to darkness. “Perfect…” she muttered to herself, as she got up to find a flashlight. She fiddled with some breakers for a few minutes, in vain, cursing Derek again for leaving her. This was supposed to be his job. Defeated, she rooted into the boxes in the fading light of her battery-operated torch and found a box with some candlesticks and brought it inside.
　
　
Her brother had been kind to light the fire in the woodstove before he left. Gratitude found its way into her heart as she stoked the embers and added a piece of wood to the flames. She lit a candle and set it on the kitchen table. The light revealed his handwriting on the cardboard, with their names. Somehow, in the dark, she had managed to find this of all boxes in the whole garage. She traced her finger along the blocky capitol letters and sat down, bracing herself. Carefully, Lynne sifted through the remnants of their courtship, filled with letters and photographs, matchbooks from restaurants, poems written on napkins and paper lunch sacks.
　
　
They met when she was 16 years old and Lynne couldn’t imagine herself with anyone else since. Derek was her soul’s twin. He went away to college for two years before they were married, which nearly killed her. Lynne pulled out dozens of pictures they’d taken on visits to each other, some taken by Derek with one arm around her and the other extended to snap the shutter on the disposable camera. They looked so young, smiling and bursting with happiness just to be in each other’s company - it had been so rare. The end of every letter held the same promise that it wouldn’t be much longer before there would be no more goodbyes. His devotion had filled her to brimming. She recognized the candles from a picnic he’d made the summer before graduation… when he’d asked her to marry him. Officially. Unofficially, he had asked her a thousand times. They decided on a name for their eventual first daughter before they’d been together their first year. He was her only. Only. Only.
　
　
The days after his death, Lynne pretended he was away again, just like college. She could handle that, she reasoned somehow, because she had done it before. She had gone whole months without seeing his face and feeling his arms around her. Beyond that, she did not dare try to imagine enduring. The world began to cave in when she tried to picture living without him much longer than that. To stave off the black hole of thoughts that threatened to devour, she stayed safely busy, her worn hands a blur. To stave off the pain, she had allowed anger to numb her senses, and it was rapidly wearing off. Toward the bottom of the box, the darkness began its tug at her insides. She stayed perfectly still, listening to the wood crack as the fire consumed it in the next room.
　
　
“Can you hear me, Derek?” she asked the darkness. The walls danced in the delicate glow of the candle. “You said you’d never leave me…” she whispered. Under the ragged edges of envelopes torn-open, was a book Derek had given her the day he left for college long ago. Inside it, she found a faded scrap of notebook paper, marking a poem.
　
　
The neglected wounds on her hands burned with the brine of her tears, and she thanked him for this last promise, clutching the book to her broken heart.
　
　
　
“now all the fingers of this tree(darling)have
hands,and all the hands have people;and
more each particular person is(my love)
alive than every world can understand

and now you are and I am now and we’re
a mystery which will never happen again,
a miracle which has never happened before---
and shining this our now must come to then

our then shall be some darkness during which
fingers are without hands;and I have no
you:and all trees are(any more than each
leafless)its silent in forevering snow

---but never fear(my own,my beautiful
my blossoming)for also then’s until”