Write Here

Your Writing Prompt of the Day (Leave a reply with what you wrote)

As the plane took off, the little boy asked his mother “is it time to cry yet?”

 

plane

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  1. It wasn’t a question he was asking for himself. Lincoln enjoyed the high-altitude excitement of travel. The longer the flight the better, as there were so many opportunities to run down aisles, play with the buttons that brought movies to the screen on the headrest in front of him, and press the service button for special attention from the flight attendants. No, his question was not about his tears, but his mothers.

    Lucinda was a cryer. It didn’t take much for her tears to well up and tip over the rim of her heavily, charcoaled eyes. She was pegged as a “sensitive type” in her youth and no one was surprised to see her face weighted down by the heaviness of a frown. Lucinda was sandwiched on the second floor of a three story building that overlooked the streets of her urban neighborhood. The second floor was never far enough to insulate her from the realities of the street, so when the night’s noise crept up from the asphalt below it tended to interrupt her dreams.

    When she’d wake, Lucinda would clumsily approach her bedroom window and peek through the slit in the drapes to bare witness to the activity below. The shadows in her own room were the only things to accompany her in this lonely task. What she saw below was never to be seen during the light of day. It spoke of people in the margins, huddled in protected entryways, scurrying back and forth. Men, women, youth, and sometimes even younger without the refuge of their own homes. Lucinda felt her pulse race and the warm tears against the cool surface of her face, leaving a trail of salt.

    Dragging her slippered feet through the hallway to the kitchen in her small apartment, Lucinda turned to the twenty-four hour news with the volume on low to keep her company. Broadcasters shared reports from another part of the city where helicopters were reported to be hovering over unwieldy groups of protesters who were blocking roads and turning over garbage cans chanting “Black Lives Matter.” Lucinda wanted to escape. She was already drowning in her own struggles with loss and was desperate find an escape route to another life, somewhere far from everything familiar.

    That was the night she gathered her resources and purchased the one way tickets. Lucinda’s sense of urgency would cause her to leave everything behind as she was desperate to escape her losses. The faces of the men in her family, her husband and brothers, shot on the streets in her neighborhood, would follow her where ever she would go. Her tears would be the only thing to satisfy her grief.

    When they boarded the plan, Lucinda turned to Lincoln and said, “Soon it will be time to cry, but not just yet. No. not yet.”

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