Writing `101: Daily Post: – Changing Moccasins
A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.
Today’s twist: write the scene from three different points of view: from the perspective of the man, then the woman, and finally the old woman.
Scene One
It was a lovely spring morning as Tally and I strolled along the winding path through the park. Up ahead seated on a bench was an elderly woman, knitting something. When I realized it was a sweater, tears came to my eyes.
“Is something wrong, Paul?” she asked.
“It’s just that Mikey was wearing a tan sweater when he was hit by that car. It’s been years, I know,” he said, “but I still miss him. When I saw that sweater I thought, if only Mikey was wearing a red sweater, the driver might have seen him and stopped in time.”
She knew there was nothing she could say that would ease my pain, but she put my arm around me and held me close as we walked out of the park and down into the subway …
Scene Two
It was a crisp autumn morning as Paul and I strolled along the winding path through the park. A flock of geese flew overhead on their way to warmer climes. A sudden breeze kicked up and I shivered. Paul drew his arm tighter around me. “All you need is a warm, red sweater,” he said.
I looked at him curiously, my eyes filling with tears. “Tally, what is wrong? Is it the baby? I just saw that woman again, still knitting a red sweater and I thought how pretty you would look in red.”
“No, everything is fine, Paul. They are really happy tears in a way. You know how poor my family was when I was growing up. My dad had left us, and my mom worked hard cleaning people’s houses all day. When I was 12, I wanted a red cashmere sweater more than anything. Several girls at school had them and everyone admired them. Of course my mom couldn’t afford one.
“Unlike my sisters, I had trouble sleeping at night. That year, a few weeks before Christmas I got out of bed, it must have been after 3AM. I slipped out of our room and peeked into my mother’s room because her light was on. Sitting up in bed, a book across her lap and two knitting needles in her hand, she held her tongue clinched between her teeth in concentration, as she was trying to learn how to knit. Believe it or not, she learned how and I had a hand knitted red sweater, maybe not cashmere, but it meant the world to me.”
“I wish I’d met your mom,” Paul said.
“She just wandered away from that daycare facility and we never found her. I miss her, Paul, especially with this little fella coming along. We had reached the end of the park, and exited it to head for the subway.
Scene Three
I sit on the bench waiting. If they walk by one more time and don’t see me, I’m going to give up. I don’t know why, but when you are old, people don’t see you anymore. I don’t want to scare her… should I say something. Oh, here they come, pushing that adorable little boy in the stroller.
The baby looks at me as they pass. He reaches out to touch the bright red yarn. I stroke the soft skin of his hand, before his mother pulls him back.
“Do you never knit with a color other than red?” she asks.
“It is my daughter’s favorite color.”
“I knitted it for him. To keep him safe.” I look at Paul. He has a curious look on his face.
As Tally and Paul move on my eyes began to fill with tears, which drop on my calloused hands. Tally stops walking and turns back to look at me. Does she see me?
“Momma,” she cries…
Scene One
A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.
Today’s twist: write the scene from three different points of view: from the perspective of the man, then the woman, and finally the old woman.
Scene One
It was a lovely spring morning as Tally and I strolled along the winding path through the park. Up ahead seated on a bench was an elderly woman, knitting something. When I realized it was a sweater, tears came to my eyes.
“Is something wrong, Paul?” she asked.
“It’s just that Mikey was wearing a tan sweater when he was hit by that car. It’s been years, I know,” he said, “but I still miss him. When I saw that sweater I thought, if only Mikey was wearing a red sweater, the driver might have seen him and stopped in time.”
She knew there was nothing she could say that would ease my pain, but she put my arm around me and held me close as we walked out of the park and down into the subway …
Scene Two
It was a crisp autumn morning as Paul and I strolled along the winding path through the park. A flock of geese flew overhead on their way to warmer climes. A sudden breeze kicked up and I shivered. Paul drew his arm tighter around me. “All you need is a warm, red sweater,” he said.
I looked at him curiously, my eyes filling with tears. “Tally, what is wrong? Is it the baby? I just saw that woman again, still knitting a red sweater and I thought how pretty you would look in red.”
“No, everything is fine, Paul. They are really happy tears in a way. You know how poor my family was when I was growing up. My dad had left us, and my mom worked hard cleaning people’s houses all day. When I was 12, I wanted a red cashmere sweater more than anything. Several girls at school had them and everyone admired them. Of course my mom couldn’t afford one.
“Unlike my sisters, I had trouble sleeping at night. That year, a few weeks before Christmas I got out of bed, it must have been after 3AM. I slipped out of our room and peeked into my mother’s room because her light was on. Sitting up in bed, a book across her lap and two knitting needles in her hand, she held her tongue clinched between her teeth in concentration, as she was trying to learn how to knit. Believe it or not, she learned how and I had a hand knitted red sweater, maybe not cashmere, but it meant the world to me.”
“I wish I’d met your mom,” Paul says.
“She just wandered away from that daycare facility and we never found her. I miss her, Paul, especially with this little fella coming along. We had reached the end of the park, and exited it to head for the subway.
Scene Three
I sit on the bench waiting. If they walk by one more time and don’t see me, I’m going to give up. I don’t know why, but when you are old, people don’t see you anymore. I don’t want to scare her… should I say something. Oh, here they come, pushing that adorable little boy in the stroller.
The baby looks at me as they pass. He reaches out to touch the bright red yarn. I stroke the soft skin of his hand, before his mother pulls him back.
“Do you never knit with a color other than red?” she asks.
“It is my daughter’s favorite color.”
“I knitted it for him. To keep him safe.” I look at Paul. He has a curious look on his face.
As Tally and Paul move on my eyes began to fill with tears, which drop on my calloused hands. Tally stops walking and turns back to look at me. Does she see me?
“Momma,” she cries…
Staying in Focus 