Excerpts from works

Is This The Way It’s Supposed to Be?

 

image

When I think about it, my chest tightens. I feel that there is something pressing against me. I look in the mirror. I see a wrinkle that I didn’t notice yesterday or the day before. My hair is white in places where black once occupied it. Two of my boys are taller than I am and before I turn around they will be grown.   Time flies away. It’s the only thing around here that does. Where will I be when they move away? When I was young I thought that I had all the time in the world. I didn’t. Now I watch and wait. Will I move too? Or will I stand still. I don’t want to stand still. I want to fly, to soar like the eagles. That’s when my chest tightens and I feel like I can’t breathe. It happens almost every time when I think about life passing me by while everyone runs with it. I want to run too. I don’t want to be left behind. No one wants to be left, do they? This is what threads through my mind like a poison, eating away at me. It eats away until I push into the filing box of my mind until next time.

Advertisements
Personal · Uncategorized

American Idol

 

image

Congratulations to Trent Harmon! La’Porsha Renae, we are expecting great things from you too! Mississippi has always had great artist flow from it and this year on American Idol was no different. I will be waiting in anticipation for your music with the rest of the world! Mississippi was represented well!

Uncategorized

The Cedar Horse

 

 

The charge nurse told me I was clutching the cedar horse in my hands when they found me.  I don’t remember.  When I came to, in the sterile room, it was still there firm in my hands.  Though someone had dressed me in one of those dreadful hospital gowns.  So, she must have been telling the truth. Although I don’t know who to trust.

 The horse was symbol of happier times. It made me feel safe.  I wish I could travel back to the times it represented.  If I close my eyes, I smell the cedar.  I hear the brush of the leaves, as he wheedles away at the block of wood.   It would soon become some creature that he’d thought up.  We would sit on the red stained swing blanketed by the sweet gums and the pines.  The heat was stifling. The sweat trickled down my back.  It was the reason he wore just a white undershirt beneath his overalls.  Mississippi summers made you feel exhausted even if all you did was sit in a swing.   Most days, I was content to sit by Papaw.  He wheedled and I read.  Sometimes I would ask him question after question.  He never told me to hush like Momma did.  There were times he would tell me stories of his childhood.  Tales of watermelon thieves, how he could buy a coke and peanuts for five cents, and the stories would go on and on as stories of his childhood sometimes did.

What would he have to say about this mess that I’m in?  Sitting here surrounded by pristine white walls, a stained cotton mattress, and remnants of occupants that came before me.  The smell of Clorox fills my nostrils. The moaning and screaming hasn’t stopped since I arrived.

 If I try real hard I can almost feel his hand threaded through mine.  He would pat it and tell me it was going to be okay.  If he said it, I believed him.  He was from a generation where his word meant something.  A time when men shook hands and kept whatever promises they spoke out loud.   But he wasn’t here and my world was spiraling down.

  Tears roll down my cheek as I try to recall the last few days.  My head starts pounding.  My chest tightens.  I will myself to remember. Something. Anything. Gunshots, I remember gunshots.  I can see a large hand.  A man’s hand holding a pistol. The man is in front of me.  It’s dark and cold where we are.   Miles away from the sweltering Mississippi summers.  The land of my childhood.    This land is a land of permeate frost, frozen tundra, and vast wilderness.

A knock at the door breaks my concentration.  I study the male nurse as he walks through the door.  His eyes are soft, but he’s all business. He knows the routine. In and out. Don’t get personal with the patients.

“Time for your medicine Mrs. Carter.” He says.

I take the medicine in the paper cup.  I let the pills sit under my tongue. He doesn’t ask me to open my mouth like the woman nurse did at lunch.  As soon as he leaves the room, I grab the napkin sitting on the bedside table. I wipe my mouth and deposit the pills in the napkin.  I had never taken medicine and I didn’t plan on starting.  It was impertinent that I remember the details of the last few days.

*An excerpt of a  work.

copyright of judithwnicholson

 

 

Uncategorized

Authentic

 

image

I found it in the midst of a pile of junk or maybe it was a treasure.  At the time, everything around it was junk, and it was the treasure.  A bland blonde desk.   There on the front of the desk the remnants of where a key hole once was, and the rest of it was covered with grooves where some child had indented it with a pencil or two or three(more like a million little scratches).  After a morning of stripping it bare, the desk is now Jacobean stained with a bronzed knob from Hobby Lobby covering the abandoned key hole.  A vast improvement from its first condition or at least that’s my opinion.  It’s my favorite place to sit in my house at the moment. That may or may not be because we are remodeling (meaning the rest of our house is a wreck). Moldings are piled in the hallway.  Tables, chairs, and couches are stored in a racing trailer.  It’s the only haven I have right now.

 So, as I sit here typing this, birds are chirping outside my window. I swear there is one particular bird that calls a guy name Jimmy every morning.   The only bird that doesn’t seem to be stirring is the mockingbirds.  The bird of my homeland.  The place that I still call home after all these years.  It’s funny, when I started my other blog I didn’t know what kind of writer I wanted to be(I’m still muddling my way through).  I tried to stifle the Southern voice that kept popping up throughout my writings.  I found that I sounded generic not authentic when I masked the sound of my voice. 

My reason for starting another blog is to be authentic.  The first blog I started under a fictitious name.  A safe place.  This time it’s my name for all the world to see.  I’m still trying to figure what I want to do with my writings.  One thing is for certain-I want to write.