Recent Posts

Friday, March 9

We Spend Our Years as a Tale Told

We Spend Our Years as a Tale Told
Short non-fiction, literary
By Kelli Pliner

These words could not be truer. As with every tale there is a beginning, middle and an end; although, not every ending is a happy one. We go through our life hoping and praying that the end does have happiness, but in reality, our ending – as with the rest of our life – is what we make of it.

We each write our own tale-page by page. We are all authors, penning our own book, just hoping that it will be worth reading someday. This is where I pen a small part of my story.

For years I have been a writer of others. I have created worlds, met characters from near and far and I have survived earthquakes, wars and death. Not today. Today, I will tell a part of my story. It may not be one filled with quick witty humor, or great feats of strength; but it is mine just the same. Mine and mine alone.

Those you will meet along this small trip; whether they are good or bad; have all played a key role into shaping the person I am today. However, one thing to keep in mind is that no one shapes you more than you shape yourself…whether you know it or not.

I would be lying to you if I said this journey didn't frighten me some. Things always seem more real once they are written down. It makes them permanent…concrete. No longer just a thought or a hidden memory.

One thing I ask of you before I begin my tale…tread softly through these pages. Read closely these words I write, for they are who I am; both the beautiful and the ugly. So, read carefully and judge gently, for I am only human.

Where to begin is always difficult. The actual beginning of one's life is not ever remembered. The earliest memory in my possession is one of my most precious. To this day, it brings me comfort, joy and sadness. It is a memory of my Grandfather. A man I have known for only a small fraction of my life, but a man who has played one of the largest roles.

The memory is an ordinary one.

It is weekday mornings spent at the home of my grandparents. I was no older than four and no younger than 3 ½ years old. I can still see it in my mind--coming into the quiet house, hearing Grandma in the kitchen, making breakfast and knowing Grandpa was still in bed waiting for his granddaughters to give him his wake-up call. It would be years later when I would realize that he had never really been asleep. It was only one more tradition, one more memory to keep close. Breakfast was simple…the routine a treasure…a jewel of a memory.

Grandpa would sit in his chair; my young sister would crawl into his lap and share his oatmeal, while stealing sips of coffee when Grandma wasn't looking.

I always remembered those drinking cups. For years and years after his passing, using those blue and green tin cups would bring me a feeling of comfort – a connection to him somehow…a way for me to keep him alive.

My favorite and faintest memory of him is not a holiday or special day of celebration--not even just one particular day. No. It was something that happened whenever I came to the house or he came to visit us. These 5 simple words are those I will cherish forever.

"How's my Brown-eyed-Sweetheart?"

I can no longer hear his voice and the details of his face are somewhat diminished; but the love and tenderness spoken through those words will always remain.

On days such as this one--days that are a little darker than they should be--these few words can do more than most others I know. In these few words so much is said. It is said that I am special; I am treasured, loved and protected. I am flawless to his eyes--even if the entire world says different. It says that no matter what…I am unconditionally loved…and that is something we all long to have.

2 reactions:

Kelly Parra said...

Very touching, Kelli. Thanks so much for sharing with us!

Orhan Kahn said...

That was sweet :)