Why Write?

I started to write a story in response to a question. The question was, "have you ever won anything." My first response was, "no, never," then I remembered a contest from a long time ago, in the early 1950s. I won a coloring contest in the newspaper. I started to write, and memories flooded my mind. I'm not sure the process of writing was necessary, but if I hadn't been writing, I don't think my brain would have let all the details come to me.

I have always been under the impression that I only knew my father from afar. I don't remember a hug or many signs of affection, so when his image started coming to me as I was writing this piece, it was a gift. He was right there with his mustache, and his grin, and his winter coat that smelled like fresh air.

I remembered him bringing the parcel into the kitchen. It was all wrapped up with my name on it. He was so pleased and happy to plunk it down on the table. He was grinning and happy for me. I could feel it. The hands holding the parcel were his hands, I could tell by the reddish hairs on the top of his fingers and the slight shake he always had.

"Here I'll help you open it," he said, and he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pocketknife. The same pocketknife I found in my mother's jewellery box after her funeral. The pocketknife brought back memories of him peeling apples on the back porch and cleaning his nails as he waited for us to get in the car. He cut the strings on the package, and I could hear them pop.

What a gift. A visit with my father I would never have enjoyed if I hadn't been writing a memory.