Here's another writing exercise from the folks at Write Anything.  The idea is to look at the picture given and write 500 words, then post it. 


I moved out here to give my daughter a better life.  There are fireflies.  They dance around her.  There are mice that live in the grass.  It will snow in the winter.  I’ll start graduate school in a few weeks.  She laughs as the mouse moves around in her hand.  These are the moments she’ll remember for the rest of her life.  The limo ride to our small town from the city took place during rush hour.  It couldn’t have been a more prolonged hell. 

Abigail puts the mouse down into the grass and looks up at me, a huge grin on her face, then she runs around trying to catch fireflies.  It would be great if only we could freeze these moments, not just the images like in photographs, nor the images and words like in movies, but the feelings.  The way it felt to kiss Jessica in the limo, before she stepped out into the airport, if I could freeze that forever, it would keep me company now, a two story house filled with boxes, a daughter enamored with the country life, while I am lonely in my moment. 

Sometimes you want to cry.  Abigail’s mother left shortly after she was born.   She didn’t want to be a mother yet.  I met Jessica two years ago.  We moved to fast, maybe.  That’s beside the point.  She was too young for me.  I was too old for her. I had a kid, like my ex, she didn’t want kids.  Stupidly, I thought she’d change her mind.

Abigail walks up to me, her hands cupped.  “I caught one!”  I smile, nod, and congratulate her.  Love is a fragile thing.  One moment it’s there, pulsating all through your body, making you into a human tuning fork.  The next moment, you’re wondering what happened.  “Look!” 

I look and the firefly bursts out of her hand, flying off to join its friends.  I watch as the look on her face turns from ecstasy to complete disappointment.  We really are fragile.

The image of Jessica, in the hotel room, her bags next to her forming her mouth into the words “I’m sorry Michael, I can’t stay.  I’m just not ready for this I have to go home,” keeps haunting me, like a bad horror movie.  I put a hand on her shoulder, asking if she’s sure.  That’s when we came up with the limo idea.  An extravagance to say goodbye to one another, but the entire time we sobbed while Abigail slept. 

I place my arms around my daughter, hugging her close to me, “Don’t worry Abigail, the best is yet to come.”  Somehow, seeing the dance of the fireflies in the dusk and feeling the humid summer air against my skin, I know this.