Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Write a Revison

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

2015-09-17_bohemian beach

You walked right past him the first time. Just another sun-tanned, shirtless man, on the beach, broad chest, golden skin, a rose tattoo on his bicep. You were there for a walk in your special seaside haven, and there was another half mile to go.

But as the afternoon faded, and the sun began to fall, you backtracked toward your car. He was still there in the sand, turning to look right at you, smiling, no hesitation. You were curious, but self-conscious, looking everywhere else: the red-hued cliffs, the open sky, the outstretched, rippled sea.

“Beautiful,” you gestured to the surroundings, as he continued to gaze upon you.

He nodded, smiling into your eyes. “Beautiful,” he said.

You kept walking, leaving him behind. You were moving towards the settling sun, getting closer to your car, when a voice inside your head asked,

What’s the hurry? Why not stay and watch the sunset?

So you stopped to circle with the shells, sneaking looks over your shoulder at the arms with the rose tattoo.

You each have your own version of this story. The one about that ‘beautiful’ day when you both met. Watching him from afar at sunset, you got butterflies in your stomach, so fluttery, you lost your breath, laughing out loud at yourself. He saw the air go pink all around you, and quietly asked God to make you his. And these things happened all before you knew each other’s names.

Eventually, he did walk right to the rocky outcrop where you stood. He made it seem so simple. “Hello.”

You talked easily together until the light fell and a rain shower came. He began to jog toward a nearby Kaimani tree for shelter. You stayed behind, unsure.

Ducking beneath the tree, he turned back to you, beaming. Raindrops splashed across his cheeks. Everything about him said ‘of course,’ as he called “C’mon!”

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Free Write

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

 

A baby is on my chest. My son. Our son.

Nothing meets expectation.

Like the fact that I am on my back. Or that my feet are still in the air. Or that I’m in a hospital room with bright lights and blue-donned strangers in puffy, white footwear.

Most certainly, I did not expect that nothing, really nothing, would be here. I had seen plenty of movies, read stacks of books. I had expected labor to be hard. I had expected myself to be pushed beyond my limit. And I’d expected that familiar, on-screen moment: joyful tears of euphoria when my child was placed, wet and fresh upon my heart. I did not ever expect to feel the weight of him (so fragile), see his fingers (so long), only to search inside and come up empty. I expected some emotion, any emotion, but I am holding my newborn baby and there is nothing that I sense but numb.

And there are more unmet expectations.

I had expected an ugly baby. Plenty of stories had been shared of slippery, reddened howlers, sliding in to the world, with pointy heads, and flattened faces. But what instinctively nuzzles down at my breast is golden-haired and perfect. His skin is smooth and flawless, nearly sun-kissed, to a tone the shade of ginger root. And his scent, wafting up through the silky hair of his crown, is the distinct aroma of butterscotch popcorn. I had not expected him to be pristine, immaculate.

 

2013-12-05_Baby pic

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Behind the Moon

Gone are the days, sixteen years ago, when I was with Jeb’s dad (no Jeb yet). I had a couple hundred dollars in the bank, living in a school bus up on blocks, wondering how far beyond 300,000 miles my Subaru would go.

Now I’m 42 in a Prius (color, “Pure White”). My husband (not Jeb’s dad) and I bought it used, but it looks brand new. It hovers low to the ground, a suburban vehicle, not built for off-road, barely skirting speed bumps.

In the back seat is a twelve-year-old and a Labrador. My pre-teen vies for use of ear buds with his smart phone, but I’ve established a no-headset rule in the car.

I am grateful for a reliable, gas-efficient automobile, a healthy, insightful son, and a sweet-natured, four-legged companion. Each of these is a wish, made realized. But maneuvering us all in the driver’s seat of this scene, I feel as though I’ve been cast in a movie. Given props and a costume for a role I’ve yet to fully embody. Who is this middle-aged lady in the station wagon, with a budding teen, and a dog?

What happened to Jeb’s booster seat, and me, passing back pieces of organic rice cakes, while we both sang, enthusiastically, to the music I loved, and he liked too? When Matt Costa’s “Behind the Moon,” was Jeb’s all-time favorite, and we could crank it over cruddy speakers on the short car ride to pre-school.

Now here I come
To dance around the sun
I’ve been oh so blue
Stuck behind the moon
Now let me in
Back where we begin
And let me hold you like the way
I used to do

Now it’s requests for bad pop music on the radio, or desired ear bud solitude, blocking the chance for conversation.

“Mom, I can still hear you with them in, I just like listening to my music.”

Now let me hold you like the way…

I used to do
I used to do

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