Prompt: The Stranger
Writing Exercise #20
This one is an emotional exorcism too. It was helpful to write. This one’s for me, folks. We’ll get back to entertainment soon.
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Enjoy!
Prompt: Write that idea in your head
I don’t know why I felt the urge to go in person, but it felt like the right thing to do.
Dad never hid her from me, I always knew she was there. I just didn’t know her. He didn’t like to talk about her. After he died, I found photo albums, journals, letters, all these little artifacts. From his journals I learned that he just plain didn’t know what to do with them. He wanted to tell me all about her, but never had the right words.
The plane landed and I emerge into a place which was totally alien to me, yet strangely felt familiar. The people here looked more like me than the people back home. Yet everything I knew, everything I was, the way I spoke, dressed, behaved—everything was informed by where I grew up. So I was among my people, yet—separate from them.
I knew enough to get by. All I had was a couple photographs, a name, and the place where I could expect to find her.
I asked everyone I encountered—I showed them the picture, I asked in my clumsy, non-native way, “Do you know her?”
They would all shake their head. The taxi driver, people walking in the street. I had a hotel booked, and I had a plan for how to tackle the problem. I would find something. I was on a mission.
The next day, I started early—and I just started walking. I knew roughly what streets and had a search plan if no one knew anything, but eventually someone nodded—they beckoned me to come with them. I thought they were taking me to her—it felt too easy. But no, they took me to a translator, someone who could speak English.
“Do you know her?” I asked.
“Yes, just by sight, not by name.” they replied through the translator.
“Where do you see her?”
“At the Church.”
Church—that made sense. “Which Church?”
“I will take you.”
We walked for what felt like an hour to get to the Church. I thanked my guide, and their translator, and they left me to ask the priest.
The priest knew her, and was able to give me an address.
More walking.
Eventually, I found her. It was a house with a high fence. I rang the doorbell—a young woman came out. I showed them the picture, and told them the name. They nodded and went in to get her.
When she emerged, the first thing I thought was—she looked familiar. She looked like the other half of me, the half that was missing. She looked just like the photographs.
“Mom?” I said, the word shaking as it spilled out, like the tears in my eyes.
“Is that really you?” She said—her eyes welling up. She opened the gate and she hugged me tightly. “Is it really you!” she exclaimed through tears.
“Dad is dead.” I said into her shoulder. “He’s gone, Mom.”
Suddenly the floodgates opened. I sobbed. She rubbed my back while tears flowed freely down her face. “It’s alright, It’s ok” she said in a sing-song voice, exactly the way Dad used to say it, “It’s alright, It’s ok.”
(# words)
The Promptee Has Become The Promptor
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No prompts this time. Was hard enough writing the thing—I hope you enjoy reading it!
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy! Come back next week for another writing exercise!
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God bless!