Short Story 1-Vignette

So December 20th, our new short comes out, but til then, I wrote this short story for my class. It’s from the perspective of a child and I’m fairly happy with it. Enjoy!

Itchy, itchy, itchy.  It’s a suit that’s probably a year to late to fit. My grandmother says how much I’ve grown, which I know already because my suit doesn’t fit.  We all pile into the old church that my parents say they got married in.  We drove a long way just to go to mass, but it’s a Friday and it’s not Easter so I’m not sure why we’re in church.  I lean over to my Mom and ask why we drove so far to go to the church they got married in on a Friday while wearing my Easter suit that’s too small.  She tells me to be quiet and stop fidgeting.  My brother elbows me hard in that playful way that still hurts but I try not flinch.  He says I’m too young to understand. I’m only 2 years younger than him and I get more gold stars in class than anyone else so what does he know?  I pinch him, playful but hopefully hard enough to hurt. He doesn’t flinch and says something about a funeral.  I put on a sad face and ask him who died.  He isn’t sure, maybe my dad’s great aunt or great cousin or someone else. I feel bad for not crying but I look over at my dad and he’s not crying so I think its O.K.  I ask my brother if I knew this person. He says she met us once but we were really little so I probably wouldn’t remember.

I wonder if she remembered me. I wonder how little I was.  I wonder why I can’t remember when I was a baby. My first memory was my third birthday; I see my presents under my parent’s bed, wrapped in Aladdin wrapping paper.  It’s weird how well I remember everything about that day but nothing a day before it.  I guess you learn how to remember on your third birthday. My little cousin is here, he’s only five, I wonder if he remembers anything before his third birthday. Maybe you can’t remember anything before then because you don’t really do much.  Crawl around on your stomach; look at colorful things for hours, cry and other stuff I would call dull even on a rainy day.  My mom slaps my leg to pay attention.

I try and get as comfortable as possible in the old wooden chairs.  What is even more difficult is trying to convince the hundred-year-old holy bench not to screech or cry out.  The priest is talking on and on and on and on about life and death and I can’t help but daydream.  I find a little niche in the wood and start rubbing it with my finger like it’s one of those stress rocks my dad’s started to use.  I look over at people to my right and some of them are crying and some of them aren’t.  It’s weird how everyone is wearing the same color, like we’re all those seals I saw when we went to California.  One lady is balling her eyes out like that time I rode my bike into that ditch and flew into that big tree. I look back over at my dad to make sure it’s still O.K. that I’m not crying.  He isn’t still, just looking down and staying hunched over, rubbing his little smooth rock and glistening a little like after he goes on his morning walk.

People are standing up in front of us now and getting into a long line that’s headed for the front of the church.  The line is much straighter than the line that waits for recess everyday at my school, but they look just as anxious as we do when we’re about to run out to the playground. Everyone is waddling slowly towards the front like penguins ready to slide on their bellies into arctic water. My mom asks me and my brother to stay here but we both complain and after a few seconds she gives in.  We stand up and start to make our way down the line very slowly. I look at the colorful windows that line both sides of the church.  The pictures on them are shooting colors out and making the people in front me change into different bright colors like chameleons.  The most beautiful of all these windows was the one behind the box and the Altar.  It was a picture of Easter and it made shapes that danced and danced on flowers that were right below it.  Daisies and tulips swirled and sparkled like the Pacific Ocean. Did you know that the Pacific Ocean has gold flakes in it? It’s true, my teacher said so.

I nearly run into my brother who is standing in front of me in line but has finally stopped at the box.  His facial expression turns much graver and at first I can’t see what he sees.  Then I stand on my tip-toes and see what’s inside the big elaborate wooden box. I see a shriveled old woman who looks peaceful but is much stiller than any of my G.I. Joes at home. The woman who is my dad’s aunt or great cousin or someone else stands out from everyone else because she is wearing an eloquent white dress that looks almost like a wedding dress. Almost.  Her eyes are softly closed like the way Sleeping Beauty’s eyes are closed in that story book my grandmother used to read to me. My mother nudges me to keep walking so I leave the woman who looks like she’s almost Sleeping Beauty or almost getting married.  I go back to my seat and continue to play with the little wooden indent and think about the Pacific Ocean. I have to let my dad squeeze by me. I see my dad’s red blushing face and for the first time in my life I see him almost cry. Almost.

We sit there for a long time while everyone else walks up to the front.  Organ music echoes through the church that my parents got married in while everyone takes turns crying or kneeling or sitting up very straight. I lift my head up as high as I can to get another view of the beautiful window behind the box and the Altar so I can see the flowers dance in wonderful colors to the people dressed in all black, but clouds are blocking the sun’s shine so the flowers stay as still as the woman who was my dad’s aunt or great cousin or someone else.