Erma Bombeck Writing Competition - Winners
2007
Erma Bombeck Writing Competition
1st Place - Human Interest - Dayton
Donna Hrkman
Dayton, Ohio
"The Anniversary"
| I dragged the battered cardboard box from the closet and promptly sneezed from the dust I stirred. I flipped open the flaps and stared at the landslide of photographs within. My life, my family history; all there in 4x6 and 8x10 pieces. In packets, folders and just scattered tornado-style, the photographs represented my forty-eight years. The only child, the big sister, the college graduate, the bride. And as time passed and the shutter clicked, the expectant belly; the first, second, and third sons. The first house, then the second. The beloved pets now gone, and the ones who followed and still share our lives. I sifted through the images, flashes of my past beneath my fingertips. Irresistible faces made me pause and pluck them from the randomness. My grandma, laughing, her eyes shining like stars. My mother, a princess in her satin wedding gown. And then me, wearing a little blue wool coat with a white fur collar, my hands hidden in a matching white muff. Three generations, all clutched in one hand. My parent's golden wedding anniversary loomed ahead and was the reason for this archeological dig. I intended to collect a spectrum of photos and arrange them in a scrapbook. I knew it would be the perfect gift. I began to sort the faces and places into separate piles. The years rose and passed before me, a parade of people who defined me, who raised me and made me into the person I am. The piles of photos grew and morphed into a collection, a story board of my parent's love and marriage as well as my own. I closed the flaps of the carton and carefully gathered up the puzzle pieces of my life. I would sort them, page by page, year by year, mounting them lovingly into a cream -colored scrapbook. I would wrap it in shiny gold foil paper, stick on a curly cluster of gold and white ribbons, and when the time was due, I would hand it over to her, like a rare and fragile treasure. And she would gasp, tears rushing to her eyes as she traveled back on her own journey through the past. And my dad would smile and rest his hand on her arm. And my husband and I would smile through our own tears because their journey is our journey. The photographs made it so. |