February 15, 2014

I’m 10, and I’m Telling My Story; So, Just Call Me ISABEL the STORYTELLER.

Mom and Dad were just killed. Killed.

A guy in a truck ran a red light; my parents swerved to avoid him and rolled over and over down this steep hill.

They wouldn’t let us see them after.

The last time I saw them I was in my PJs standing on the front porch, brushing my teeth, so I couldn’t give them a kiss good-by, but I was telling them I was gonna stay up late and play Settlers of Catan with Pop. (Pop and Mimi, Dad’s parents, er, and MY grandparents, were babysitting so Mom and Dad could have a date night.)

Since then, me, Clyde, Sam (the “little guys,” they’re twins) and Mimi and Pop have been sipping down, sometimes gulping, this, like, Huge Cup of Sorrow.

I’m noticing, though, even during the worst days, I can see OVER the lip of the cup. Sometimes only just a tiny bit. But at least a peek.

Stories jump up and down to get my attention.  I’m like this lady Pop told me about. She thinks someone is trying to poison her, so pretty soon, since she expects it, all her food begins to taste funny.

Because I’m hunting for stories, I find them.  All around me.  Just waiting for me to pick them up.

It’s like my memory is one of those minivans–the kind with three rows of seats?

I’ve got stories about what’s happening Right This Minute. The Front Seatmemories. They’re full of our life With Mimi and Pop, school, neighbors, every day kinds of stuff. Some big. Some little.

I’ve got stories of Mom and Dad’s car crash and the guy who caused it–the killer. That’s the Middle Row of Seats. But most times it’s like when that row gets turned down for storage. You know how you can press a lever to fold and turn the seat cushions so they’re out of sight? That’s how it is with the crash day memories. Usually.

Then there’s our whole life with Mom and Dad.  Before.  It’s like they’re just sitting in the Way Back Seat of my memory, waiting for me to notice them.

So, here goes.  This is the story of our first few months–After.  You’ll see how memories and stories jump out of the Way Back and into the Front.

Sometimes plunk right into the Middle.


PS (DO blogs have PS’s, I wonder?) But anyways:

PS, since this IS my BLOG, feel free to make comments. I’m going to reply to everyone. Hey. Why not.


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