We pulled up to Khalahanji’s off of Main, the silver domes shining behind iron bars nested in a dull penny neighborhood.
“Don’t worry,” Dave said, “they won’t try and convert us. Krishnas accept all.”
We ate at the restaurant inside the temple, the stone courtyard opened to the city smog, the top of Reunion Tower barely visible above the elephant ears and palms.
The waitress brought lentil crisps while we sipped chai tea. A group of nuns were seated in the shade, their table tented by black habits.
Dave smiled, motioning over to them “See?”
My grandfather said he knew when his time would come, and so did his father, and his father’s father. A canvas sling cradled him as the VA nurses moved him to a new bed in the hospice wing. He said the last time this happened, he was being hoisted out of a million dollar plane, now a pile of rust at the bottom of the Pacific. I tried Google earthing it, but the blue green waters were too vast, the cursor on my screen reminded me just how small I was. I changed the view to Cowboy’s Stadium, though the day the satellite captured it a tarp covered the opening; he and I were still in there together among the white chalked lines and sticky seats, our heads pushing to the surface.
My daughter and I were tossing a ball when it landed in the street. A car slowed down as the passenger waved me on. Throwing it back, my eyes met the driver’s, seated under a frosted head of hair. Their bumper sticker read: Proud UT Parent. My daughter waited by the curb with outstretched arms, her hands still fit inside of mine. We both watched the caravan of clouds overhead until they were washed golden in the distance.
This is just lovely. How everything blends is masterful. Subtle and quietly moving. Great, unexpected details. The nuns are a real standout. The grandfather and his life, the narrator's wish to map it. The last paragraph is poignant. Everything blending, life becoming a patchwork quilt of meaning.
I'm so sorry, Meg, to hear of the loss of your sister. She sounds like a beautiful soul with delightful habits. I hope the memories you have are some comfort.
I clearly remember your sister from all the TV I watched back in the day! And I will happily honor her legacy by reading in bed and eating mac and cheese AT THE SAME TIME. Sending you love and my condolences today, dear Meg. xoxo
How Small
We pulled up to Khalahanji’s off of Main, the silver domes shining behind iron bars nested in a dull penny neighborhood.
“Don’t worry,” Dave said, “they won’t try and convert us. Krishnas accept all.”
We ate at the restaurant inside the temple, the stone courtyard opened to the city smog, the top of Reunion Tower barely visible above the elephant ears and palms.
The waitress brought lentil crisps while we sipped chai tea. A group of nuns were seated in the shade, their table tented by black habits.
Dave smiled, motioning over to them “See?”
My grandfather said he knew when his time would come, and so did his father, and his father’s father. A canvas sling cradled him as the VA nurses moved him to a new bed in the hospice wing. He said the last time this happened, he was being hoisted out of a million dollar plane, now a pile of rust at the bottom of the Pacific. I tried Google earthing it, but the blue green waters were too vast, the cursor on my screen reminded me just how small I was. I changed the view to Cowboy’s Stadium, though the day the satellite captured it a tarp covered the opening; he and I were still in there together among the white chalked lines and sticky seats, our heads pushing to the surface.
My daughter and I were tossing a ball when it landed in the street. A car slowed down as the passenger waved me on. Throwing it back, my eyes met the driver’s, seated under a frosted head of hair. Their bumper sticker read: Proud UT Parent. My daughter waited by the curb with outstretched arms, her hands still fit inside of mine. We both watched the caravan of clouds overhead until they were washed golden in the distance.
This is just lovely. How everything blends is masterful. Subtle and quietly moving. Great, unexpected details. The nuns are a real standout. The grandfather and his life, the narrator's wish to map it. The last paragraph is poignant. Everything blending, life becoming a patchwork quilt of meaning.
Thank you so much Meg! Sian’s piece is so amazing, and inspiring. I
would love to find more of her work.
. Thank you for this prompt, it was so enriching!
So sorry for your loss Meg, sounds like she led an amazing life, sending thoughts of comfort to your family in this time 🙏🏼
thank you so much Guy..
I'm so sorry, Meg, to hear of the loss of your sister. She sounds like a beautiful soul with delightful habits. I hope the memories you have are some comfort.
Thank you so much Sherri.
Beautiful story, Meg. It’s also inspiring as a prompt example. Above all, your sister was so multi-talented. XO
Thank you so much dear Luanne.
Sincere condolences, Meg. And thank you for sharing this story.
Thank you Fran. x
What a lovely sensibility! Thank you for showing us, Meg.
Thank you Cheryl.
So sorry for your loss. May her memory be a blessing.
Thank you so much Victoria.
I clearly remember your sister from all the TV I watched back in the day! And I will happily honor her legacy by reading in bed and eating mac and cheese AT THE SAME TIME. Sending you love and my condolences today, dear Meg. xoxo
Thank you so much Mary. xxx
What a great piece!
This is a wonderful way to honor your beautiful sister, Meg, who was obviously a remarkable woman. Again, I’m so sorry for your loss. Thinking of you.
Thank you so much Kelli. xxx