For my Memoir Writing class, we had to hand in the first draft of your spiritual essays. Right now, I have all of my classmates' copies, and I'm going to read them soon. Everyone in the class has to edit and give suggestions, and basically participate in a workshop. I'm a little nervous, because I've never done a workshop before. The act of writing and editing my stories has always been private to me. But, I know this is a chance to improve my writing.
Other news: I've got the position of Executive Editor for next year! Woohoo. It's going to be a lot of fun. I just know it.
I'll post another blog update soon, so stay tuned. I love all of you.
Now, here's my story.
I
stared at my dead aunt’s photo that hung in the living room, noting, as
my insides twisted, that I looked quite similar to her. Within the
picture, damaged by watermarks and dust, I saw the reflection of my late
grandmother’s picture, a ghost that was just hovering over my right
shoulder.
Last
summer, I returned to my mom’s childhood home in Vietnam after a
ten-year period. When we arrived, my mom told me to explore the house
and take pictures, and she turned back to her old neighbors, those that
she had to leave behind. I came across the living room, an open space
that had its doors and windows wide open. Any person or dog could have
roamed into the room.
Just
outside, the motorcycles roared as they drove through the narrow street
next to our house. In the early morning, the rays of the sun that
couldn’t be blocked by the coconut and banana trees trickled into the
room. The scent of bún bò and phở, which the vendors sold on the street, swept into the room.
In
the middle of the room was a a small shrine. Two giant candles sat on
top of a tall mahogany table. A vase of flowers and a plate of fresh
pineapple and mangosteen flanked a large framed slate engraved with
Chinese characters. In front of it was a ceramic bowl filled with rice
and a forest of burnt joss sticks. A box of Ferrero lay oddly next to
the bowl. A fan lazily twisted left and right. On the walls that
enclosed the shrine, my mother’s past was on display through black and
white and grainy photos that captured her father and mother and siblings
– all who passed too early in life. This was where they were
remembered, and I knew my aunt’s photo would be there too.
I immediately found her because her face was the most youthful out of all the pictures. And the one that was eerily like mine.
