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Snapshot memoir

Two. June 7, 2001.

This cake we can't wait to eat. He wears tiny tennis shoes with blue stripes. In his plastic car he will sit and pedal across the lawn for hours. Eight months from now I'll stand in the yard, pleading with him to use the toilet instead of his pants. Over time our hair will change: his will go black and mine will go white. He will dream of building a tiny house. He hates his impatience, but he will sit and sketch the hundred million frames required to make a story move.

Last Friday he turned twenty. He asked for a back brace and art books and underwear from Amazon. I skipped the birthday cake and drove us to First Watch Cafe. My veggie omelet looked lovely on its sky-blue plate. He ate a cobb salad and used his hands to emphasize his thoughts. We laughed that living apart had increased our happiness. He writes in the college library on his days off. We discussed what makes a good story-- on the screen and on the page. Before we left, he looked at me and said: You're like a friend now.

~ ~ ~

To play around with this flash nonfiction form and use old photographs

as writing prompts, check out my Snapshot Memoir class!

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