Ada's Monologue I saw you doing it again today, Ma– that clamming you do with your lips whenever I questioned you about Pa's whereabouts. I'm no longer surprised. All those times, so long ago--I always knew. The scent of fresh-cut grass that wafted from Pa's foamy shaving lotion was always missing on those mornings. Ma, you never knew, but it was that scent that woke me up mornings: I'd walk to the door ledge of the bedroom you shared with Pa and find him standing with his long legs sprawled open, bent at the waist over the basin of water, and looking into the small oval mirror attached to the furniture. "Too dainty for a man," Tate once whispered to me about that furniture, "too much like a lady sort of thing." And Tate was right. That furniture was too dainty for someone as strong as Pa. Still, I loved the way how, with his eyes glued to the mirror, lips slanted to one side, Pa'd run his razor from his jawbone to his cheek, slowly–leaving a fine line of smooth, clean skin. Loved how he'd dip the foamed-up silver razor in the water bowl after every lap, give it a li'l shake, so the razor clinked a restrained-sounding jingle in the ceramic bowl, and then he'd do the same on the other side... But then there were those mornings when I'd awake to the sound of you making bread-- A tell-tell sign that something wasn't right. "Ma, where’s Pa?" I'd asked in the pauses between you pounding the dough. "Where's Pa!" "I just told you–he already left for work," you’d answer. "Without shaving?" As if, Ma! I checked--touched the dry basin and strained to reach the brush-hole to finger the brush. It was dry. "He didn't shave," I'd say assuredly. "He shaved! Now, that's enough," you'd almost shout at me as you punched the lump of dough one last time. Then, to get me off your back, you'd say, "I set out your clothes. Get dressed quickly and come eat your breakfast. Be a good girl, hurry." Ma, I was only seven then, but I knew how to read you. Today you’re behaving the same way as all those times Pa didn’t sleep at home-- clamming your lips, pounding and punching the dough. But what I want to know now, Ma, is not where Pa is, but why you're still there taking his nonsense. Get smart, Ma. Leave! Leave so I can rest in peace, once and for all. *** © selma
Not as long (2,119 words) as Jonathan Swift Somers’, The Spooniad, at the end of this exquisite Spoon River Anthology, but longer than any of my other pieces. I’m not sure what happened to me with this one (465 words — watch me burn a fuse for a whole week now).
I loved the optional prompt for today. Monologues? Spoken by a person already buried? Goodness, I never knew I could do this. And what’s more, I enjoyed how the words just kept coming.
Believe it or not, this is the shortest I could get it. This Day 8 prompt rocks. And it has a cool name– “Return to Spoon River,” after Edgar Lee Masters’ eminently creepy 1915 book Spoon River Anthology. Totally a-ma-zing! Thanks for introducing me to this. I’ll return to read it.
The Prompt: Today, I’d like to challenge you to read a few of the poems from Spoon River Anthology and then write your own poem in the form of a monologue delivered by someone who is dead. Be as dramatic as you like.
Goodness. Thank you so much.
I hope you enjoyed reading Ada’s fictional recollection of an important moment. Thanks for reading. I wish you miracles.
Photo Image by Susan Cipriano from Pixabay
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Selma, this was so touching to read. :'(
Looking forward to read rest of your writing
Aww, Neha. Thanks for visiting. And truly appreciate the comment. Be well, I wish you miracles.
You’re so talented Selma. Your writing always puts a smile on my face.
No fuming, Selma–this was great and the perfect length. Ada’s monologue is a very thought provoking and powerful poem from the eyes of a seven year old.
Poetry suits you.
Bravo,
Diane
Aww, Lady Diane. You know how to make me feel like today was not wasted. Thank you. I ran into website issues (!) but thank goodness got it resolved. thanks for the visit. I appreciate you. Did you see the prompt…? cool huh? Methinkso. Blessings.
Loved Ada’s description of her father shaving–very vivid!
Wow, this is vivid and poignant. Well done!
Hey, Lydia dear. Thanks so much for what you just did there. Wish it was always like that. I’m here to help whenever I can. Let’s do this.
I appreciate you coming to read this one. I didn’t know that anthology (part of the prompt) before. Now I cannot get enough of it. I’m already a winner. Anyway, this one was fun to work into the prompt. Glad you liked it. Be well. I wish you miracles. Selma.
Oh, this is working. So transportative. Good work.
Oh, kind sister, your words lift me higher. I appreciate you. Thanks for reading and commenting. You rock. All the best to you. (Loving your pictures AND poetry) You’re inspirational. Thanks. I wish you miracles.
Thank youuu!! And congratulations on being featured!
I value encouragement like this. Thanks. You are valued, my friend. Be well. I wish you miracles.
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Ada’s monologue is fabulous writing, Selma…kids are so perceptive, we can’t fool ’em. This makes me want to read more!
I’m so happy you read that. Pleases me enormously. Thanks for the encouragement. ♥️ 👏