Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Bad Metaphors and a Fleeting Childhood by Brenna Stueve

 

     If childhood was a sentence, it would be a run-on, punctuated with ampersands and semicolons; a seemingly never-ending line cut short by a period composed of the revealed secret of Santa Claus’ whereabouts and a sudden disinterest in Barbies and/or Hotwheels. *

     I barely remember most of my childhood.  Only fleeting glimpses of random events interrupted by blank memory shelves.  My mind is a house.  Bare, save the necessities. A bed fashioned from love-laced strokes into my hair from my Mother.  A couch stuffed with laughter resulting from flipping through photo albums.  A table constructed of home cooked meals, sandpapered smooth by jokes and gentle teasing.  Only the important things fill my memory.

     It seemed to go on forever, my childhood.  Constituted of visits to the toy section at Target and watching new episodes of Spongebob Squarepants that are now faded and cheesy.  My weeks were split into days at preschool and days at home, which I dreaded due to the new baby.  Resentment curling bitterly in my stomach at the meaty fisted toddler babbling vicariously in place of words as I ignored them in favor of the sickening optimistic Teletubbies.  After, balancing on the balls of my feet to search for a pink backpack that indicated my older sister coming home from kindergarten.  These memories were the threads that connected my childhood together, sewing them together and binding my autobiography from loose sheets of paper memories.

     It really does end quickly.   Innocence snatched away so suddenly, the whiplash sends you hurtling toward pre-teen attitude and teenage angst.  I began reading Harry Potter instead of Junie B. Jones, going from playing dress up to actually dressing up.  Subtle changes that were so miniscule, I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye. Like the smell of dish soap overpowering the scent of baked cookies; homely and childish ignorance replaced by the harsh antiseptic of reality.

     Like sitting in bed as it storms both outside and inside as my parents fight over money.  My life thus far simplified into nostalgic memories to mull over as I drift to sleep.

     If childhood is a run-on sentence, then adolescence is a bad metaphor interrupted suddenly by adulthood and forcing the children at heart to look toward the future and-  time to grow up. *

 

*Note from teacher "You seriously earned an A with 1 sentence." and "This is beautiful! Excellent work!"

 

I think I have a writer on my hands.  She told me once she wasn’t good at anything creative.  Um…I think she’s found an outlet!  We want more…we want more! (Name that commercial.)

Great job Brenna!   A++ for sure!!

1 comment
  • Rebecca Rose

    geico!!! brenna is a wordsmith! i am in awe!