By Asche Keegan

A Letter to a Friend

By Asche Keegan

Waiting Here

By Asche Keegan

He sat alone on an abandoned park bench, the first flakes of snow dusting the top of his frozen ice cream cone. Well aware of the askance looks he received from those walking by, he licked away the mint chocolate chip—the one source of color in the otherwise dreary world. He shivered, as was to be expected, and pulled his coat closer around himself.

For the last 364 days he had sat here, a brutal test to his resilience and his motivation. Only if I can make it to the end will I invite her, he had said. He had loved her once, two marriages, forty years, and a war ago. He had not thought of her since without love and regret in his heart.

“Abe?” her voice rang behind him.

He turned, at once caught up in her aged beauty, crinkles in her once-smooth skin, gray hairs peeking through the black.

“You look different.” Yet, somehow, he loved her even more.

“As do you. Although I believe time has been kinder to you than I,” she joked.

“Nonsense, you look beautiful.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized his error; he had belied himself immediately. “Sorry, I apologize,” he scrambled.

“No, no, it’s fine…thank you.” She smiled, and it was as if the sun had come out. “Do you want to go inside? It’s kind of cold out here, and I see you have an…ice cream cone?”

“It’s a tradition,” he said, rising from the park bench and walking with her towards a nearby restaurant.

“Every time I have sat here, I have bought a cone of ice cream, and on today, the one-year anniversary of when I began, I felt it only fitting to treat myself one last time.”

“Congratulations! It takes commitment to come out here every day. Unfortunately, it’s a more somber anniversary for me—my late husband passed away last year on this date.”

He knew that of course, just like he knew mint chocolate chip was her favorite flavor, and winter her favorite season, and the restaurant they were walking to was her favorite location. He had practiced how to reply to a statement such as this nearly a thousand times, but now the words escaped him, and he mustered out a scratchy, “I’m sorry, that’s terrible.”

“Life happens, and I’m moving on, you know?”

The conversation fell into silence, before she asked about his day and proceeded into chatter about the mundane. The two of them had lunch, and the conversation passed in a blur, every moment a dynamic exchange that left them choking over their glasses.

“Do you remember when Emilio put soap into the fountain and got foam all over the commons?”

“Yes! He was always such a jokester!”

Yet, about an hour and a half later, when the waiter had stopped coming by and the giggles had fallen into a relaxed silence, she began subtly gathering her things.

Desperate to prolong his time with her, he cast about for something left to say, but had nothing but the truth. “You know, the real reason I sat out there every day,” he began, “was because I could barely see your apartment complex if I squinted.”

She fell still, eyes fixated on her frozen hands. He sensed he had ruined everything, but he had no choice now but to bumble on.

“365 days ago, I wanted to go to you immediately, but I stopped myself, saying I didn’t deserve you. I vowed to myself that only if I could sit outside in all the bitter elements for a full year would I then reconnect with you. I still don’t deserve you, but I know now this is not a passing faze and never will be. And I will respect your decision, whatever you make, but I want you to know that I lo—” he froze, and as her face shot up he cast around for another word, “—love spending time with you, and I will be your friend no matter what.”

Her gaze returned to her hands. “So that’s why you always sat out there. I always wondered but didn’t have the nerve to ask.”

She met his eyes, and he knew what she would say before she said it. “You’re a good man, Abe. Thank you for letting me know how you feel, and I admire your courage and bravery to talk about it in such a candid manner with me. But I loved my husband—I still do, even as he lies dead in a cold grave. I fear that if I moved on so soon, I would not be doing him justice.”

So soon? He had months in excruciating heat and cold waiting here for her, and it was too soon?

“I understand,” he said instead.

“Thank you…I have to go now, but it was good to see you again. Maybe we could do this again some time.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice."

“Okay…bye? See you later, Abe.”

“Bye.” He watched her leave—just as he had the last day of high school all those years ago, a joyous wave behind her and a skip in her step.

“See you later, Abe!” she had called.

“Tough luck, friend,” the waiter said, coming up beside him and drying his hands on the towel over his shoulder. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Yeah, a Tetravis please.”

He closed his eyes and could still see her there, hear her voice, feel her hand in his. So soon… But for him, he had waited not one year, but forty.

When They Tell Me to Describe Home

By Asche Keegan

To an outsider, the beautiful brick house and the rose bushes where I spent my childhood would seem like a blessing and foretelling of an equally beautiful story within. Though the bricks are scuffed and worn and different colors, very few are cracked. The yard is mowed, and three rose bushes grow in front of the porch. They sway gently in the blustery winds of early spring. Though no professional gardening job, the place looks well-kept enough from the street—until you get closer and see the duck tape in the eaves where the birds and bees would nest, the orange yellow pumice meant to keep the insects out, and the brutally cracked and scuffed concrete running under the porch. Under the rosebushes is nothing but a tarp meant to keep the weeds out of the flowerbeds; there is only a small hole poked out for the bushes to grow in.

In my mind, I walk inside through the garage, as I always have, but on the other side of the laundry room Mom is waiting in her doorway, tirade ready on her lips. I stand there and listen as I always have, thoughts flying randomly, shoulders falling further and further under the weight of her abuse. The smell of soggy pizza pervades through the house from where my sister is cooking in the kitchen while she teaches my other sister how to spell the word, “multiplication,” and still I am here, listening in my mother’s doorway.

A realization strikes me as I picture the scene—I was never allowed to see the house on blustery spring mornings, and this entire process was solely an act created by the fanciful imaginings of my mind. With that the dream (or nightmare, you decide) fades away: the house, the pizza, my mother, and once more I am left in the empty universe of my mind. It is a sorry place, yet that is where my mind drifts when I think of home, and it is still better than wandering endlessly alone.

Strays

Disclaimer: 

This is not my own work, but rather a close-imitation writing exercise based on Jamaica Kincaid's short story, "Girl." The purpose of the exercise is to mimic the writing style of another author and simply replace key words and phrases with your own! I did this for my creative writing class - which I love - and liked it enough to share it here. Nevertheless, I would still count this as a journaling entry, though I suggest you read the original first. :) Enjoy!

What My Mother Taught Me (Close Imitation Exercise) 

By Asche Keegan

Order your textbooks on Monday and line them up against the wall; pack your book collection on Tuesday and put the boxes in the van; don’t check your phone; carry a pencil and a pen; forget about your friends after you take off; when taking notes to help you study, be sure that they aren’t scribbled over, because that way they won’t be legible after class; make toast when the cafeteria is closed; is it true that you socialize more than you study?; always spend your time in such a way that it won’t hurt your grades; On Sundays, try to act like an adult and not like the kid you’re so bent on remaining; don’t slouch when you’re talking to me; you shouldn’t speak when I’m talking, not even to give clarifications; don’t eat wheat – indigestion will follow you; but I don’t talk when you’re talking, and I never slouch; this is how to write a sentence; this is how to write an essay for the sentence you have just written; this is how to edit an essay so you can submit it on time and to prevent yourself from looking like the irresponsible kid you’re so bent on remaining; this is how you stay up late for hours every night so that you get all good grades; this is how you eat plenty of protein and vegetables so that you get all good grades; this is how you make pizza– far from my room, because the smell makes me sick; when you are teaching others, make sure they get plenty of sleep or else they won’t understand you when you are teaching it; this is how you multiply; this is how you divide; this is how you do a geometric proof; this is how you write a story you won’t like too much; this is how you write a story you don’t like at all; this is how to ruin a story you like completely; this is how you study during the day; this is how you study during the weekend; this is how you study during the weekend with a holiday; this is how you study during the night; this is how you study while you eat;

[...]

This is how to make the benchmark; always double-check your work to make sure it’s good; but what if I run out of time on the test?; you mean to say that you’re really going to be the type of kid that will run out of time on the test?