The Plum (For Father's Day)
Hello lovelies! In my writing group we have a weekly 300-500 word "Writing Prompt Wednesdays" that I like to participate in when I can. For those of you who might want to participate, I will include the prompt below. Here is my response to this week's #writingpromptwednesdays.
Writing Prompt: With Father's Day around the corner, we decided this week's prompt is about Dads. Tell us the good, bad, or the ugly. We want to hear about your Dad. Another option, tell us your Main Character's Dad or if they're a Dad.
Growing up, my favorite stories were ones of faraway places and knights and dragons. Many of the people in my stories were heroes or warriors, brave people who faced danger despite the odds. My father, thankfully, has never had to fight a dragon or outsmart an ogre. I cannot remember what his hair was like before it started to become gray. I don’t remember if it always had those laugh lines around the eyes. I might even believe you if you told me they were always there. As a little girl, my father was a firm and loving fixture. Yet, my fondest memory of my father involves a plum.
When younger, my father often came home tired from work. I recall once I was sitting in the living room next to the kitchen. The lights were on in the kitchen, casting enough of a glow that I apparently felt turning the living room lights on to be unnecessary. Instead, I sat quietly in the half-glow, watching cartoons from my perch on the old green couch. My father could be heard arriving home, yet I did not leave. I was vaguely aware of him doing something in the other room before he finally wandered in. He went and sat on one side of the couch, and I could see the black-purple gem he held shining in his hand—a fresh plum. I have a vague memory that he became aware of my attention. He called me over. I happily complied with great enthusiasm. I leaned against him as he took a small paring knife and began to slice away pieces of the plum. I could smell the sweet, ripe fruit waft through the air. The firm, shiny skin of the fruit cupping each slice like a proffered hand of invitation. He gave me a piece. I devoured it. I still remember the sweetness of that plum, and the sticky juice that ran over my hand as he sat on the couch with me. There is a warmth in that memory, a security that I still call upon today whenever I have a little black-purple plum.