This is a placeholder.
Writing about family, at least for me, and at least about my family, was one of those ‘seemed like a good idea at the time’ ideas, which now has me feeling puzzled and mute. The problem isn’t that I have nothing to say; it’s that I have so much. Where do I begin? Which corner do I shine a spotlight into? How dusty do I want my clothes to get in this excavation?
So, for now, because it is also the holiday season as I’m writing this and I have about eight million errands to run, all of which are distracting me from this bigger-than-I-thought Writing Prompt, I’m going to leave this placeholder, in case any of you want somewhere to share stories of your own in the comments.
I’ll be back, and I’ll write about family, in some way. For now, I’ll leave you with this one small holiday story:
Every year, usually some time during the summer, I would steal something from my brother Jarrod. If asked, I’d deny having seen it and wonder along with him where on earth it could be. Then, at Christmas, I would wrap up this stolen item and give it to him as a gift. I thought I was a genius mastermind of long-term, patient humor. He was, without fail, disappointed. And he always, without fail, forgave me. He never got mad, or hit me, or belittled me, or called me names. He always forgave me, and watched with heartfelt pride as I opened whatever thoughtful gift he’d gotten or made for me. I was such a jerk. And he was such a saint.
He was my best friend, for a while.