Keep collecting moments, she said to me one morning, a strange look on her face, as if she couldn’t reconcile something.
I nodded frantically, craving any feedback; the attention was like crack. And something sparked that day, but I’ve never been able to figure out exactly she saw on my face that was so out of place.
I tried to collect those moments, I really did, but then other things got in the way and the story of a boy at the lake fell to the wayside, and the moments were lost.
You can’t force them, I could her her yell at me, hands thrown up in the air what the hell are you doing here?
An unspoken, no, I’m not, rings in response to her accused, “You’re better than this,” arms folded across her chest, blocking off any possible warmth.
And so there were no more moments, except for the real ones that couldn’t be written, couldn’t be saved because there are rules to this, you know. One must master the rule before manipulating its form.
I HATE THIS stares back at you, and we all know how he feels about this assignment, don’t we class?
No, I stutter, it’s not that I hate it, it’s just…
This has potential, and I don’t say that very often, because I usually don’t think it. But this has potential to be so much more than it is.