In my Creative Writing class we are now working on edits of each others creative nonfiction essays. Mine will not be edited for a couple weeks, but this is my first draft. I chose three "topics" to write about. I wrote three long paragraphs for each and then took lines and spliced them together so the topics are mashed, but hopefully you saw the connection that I found at the end. I wasn't sure how all the pieces and metaphors were going to fit together as a I wrote it but once I finished I found out.

WHEN THE HOUSE CALLS HOME

Whitney sat with her legs crossed on the kitchen counter, eating honey-nut Cheerios out of the box. I sat on the carpet in front of the sink staring up at her as she talked all about the rights and wrongs of eye shadow colors. My eyes opened at the seams, my tears flooding the floor. The urn sat in the middle of the oak alter, before the same wooden pews. Flowers decorated the sides, shockingly alive in their vases. They spilt onto the stairs, dripping with petals. My breath caught in my throat as I pictured her tall frame returning to dust and fitting into that small box. That’s a church thing, right? “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

The rain dripped onto the cement from the edge of the gutter, sounding like a metronome. A small puddle was pushing outward as the drops continued to fall into the center.  Our driveway is cut into blocks, each block separated by a large crack, running the width of the driveway. The blind family of raindrops continue on toward their final destination, unable to see in front of them; too focused on the future. Suddenly the family is jerked to a halt, caught in the crack. They lie paralyzed and separated, grandmas over here, nephews and mothers over there.

She seemed so big to me, sitting on the counter so far above me. She created this perfect man on thin air and made me promise that I would be a bridesmaid. Now all I can do is stare at the gold, immaculate container sitting on the alter, staring down at me.

We lived in a yellow house that sat on a little hill in neighborhood full of people we liked. The water in the puddle began to slouch south, pointing towards the storm drain at the bottom of our driveway. With a drip, that acted as the blade in a guillotine the puddle took to the cement, catching speed as it swam down to a home filled with others just like it. The drops no longer distinguishable in the family of rain; one is one and one is the same.

When I was six, I won a goldfish at the carnival and took him home. In the car, I sat staring at her in the plastic bag where all goldfish first live. Her eyes darted around; as she looked everywhere she could all at once. I stared at her eyes as he flicked around her transparent house, they didn’t blink, just stared, like they were scared they were going to miss something. I don’t think I’d want a home like that, one where everyone could see me all the time.

I remember when Whitney graduated high school and we all stuck our hand in wet cement, so that she wouldn’t forget us all when she left. She leaned down and whispered to me, “Now we’ll be here forever.”  I kind of felt bad then. She didn’t ask to be put in this plastic house and to have all her feelings on full display. I watched as she danced around her plastic bag making loops and spirals with her fins.

She held my pinky in hers and made me swear that if she ever moved too far away that I would call her and make her come home.  I didn’t know what to do with her; didn’t have a home for her that wasn’t glass. We sat on my porch, with her in her plastic home and me in my sandals. Later that afternoon I poured her down the storm drain, giving her back to her home.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit