She turned to us, her brown hands covered in chalk, and she said "You have to use this class to write about something happy." Then after a short pause she added "Happy. Blissful. Even if it's small and fleeting. Happy."
I put my head down on the wooden desk. We had our classes in the primary section of a school and the we had outgrown the benches more than a decade before. The walls were papered with drawings of lopsided flowers and enthusiastic diagrams of water cycle manufactured rain. One chart said "Star performer" and Mohan had a lot of paper stars shining bright next to him.
I am not good at writing about happy things. I try but I end up sounding plastic. My teacher says my best work is about regret and she hopes that doesn't reflect on my real life. Don't we all import things from our own little worlds to make our stories work?
She may have sensed this, because when she passed by my desk, she whispered, "write about the last time you felt really at peace."
The last time I felt really at peace was a couple of weeks ago. I was at your place, sitting on the floor. We were eating Chinese food. You were on the bed, a little beyond my reach, and you put on something to watch on your laptop. The laptop screen was at an uncomfortable angle and all the characters seemed bathed in odd shades of green and red.I didn't say anything because I was exhausted from a long day and full from all the food. The voices of the characters, crisp repartee by who I am sure are excellent writers, filled the space interspersed with your laughter and the clatter of steel cutlery. At one point when I started to doze off, you patted my arm. I looked up and thought you wanted me to pass something. You didn't want anything passed. It was just a stray pat that meant nothing in particular. Pats do that, they don't have to be loaded with hidden clues to some secret emotion.
At that point, I felt warm and comfortable. And happy, yes. It was nothing. It was a non-event, non-special, non-noteworthy time. A regular sleepover with food from our regular place.
I turned in this paper and left the class earlier than everyone else.
I put my head down on the wooden desk. We had our classes in the primary section of a school and the we had outgrown the benches more than a decade before. The walls were papered with drawings of lopsided flowers and enthusiastic diagrams of water cycle manufactured rain. One chart said "Star performer" and Mohan had a lot of paper stars shining bright next to him.
I am not good at writing about happy things. I try but I end up sounding plastic. My teacher says my best work is about regret and she hopes that doesn't reflect on my real life. Don't we all import things from our own little worlds to make our stories work?
She may have sensed this, because when she passed by my desk, she whispered, "write about the last time you felt really at peace."
The last time I felt really at peace was a couple of weeks ago. I was at your place, sitting on the floor. We were eating Chinese food. You were on the bed, a little beyond my reach, and you put on something to watch on your laptop. The laptop screen was at an uncomfortable angle and all the characters seemed bathed in odd shades of green and red.I didn't say anything because I was exhausted from a long day and full from all the food. The voices of the characters, crisp repartee by who I am sure are excellent writers, filled the space interspersed with your laughter and the clatter of steel cutlery. At one point when I started to doze off, you patted my arm. I looked up and thought you wanted me to pass something. You didn't want anything passed. It was just a stray pat that meant nothing in particular. Pats do that, they don't have to be loaded with hidden clues to some secret emotion.
At that point, I felt warm and comfortable. And happy, yes. It was nothing. It was a non-event, non-special, non-noteworthy time. A regular sleepover with food from our regular place.
I turned in this paper and left the class earlier than everyone else.
