W I N N E R O F T H E J O S H U A W E I N Z W E I G F L A S H F I C T I O N C O N T E S T, G R A D E 1 2
CIRCLE OF LIFE ____________________________________________________________ by Sarah Asgari, Grade 12 It all happened beside a volcano, but that wasn’t the most interesting part. Now, depending on your perspective (and maybe even life experience), the interesting part may vary. It could be the fact that an expectant mother was soon to be expecting no longer a few feet away from where I was standing. It could be the fact that an elderly woman seemed to be engaged in an avid, albeit unnerving, staring contest with an iguana whose—hand?— appendage with not-quite opposable thumbs?—was slowly creeping toward her purse resting next her. It could even be the fact that the tour guide, who was leading us on our volcano expedition the day of December 21st, 2012, was frantically running around yelling about the Mayan apocalypse and humanity’s day of reckoning. There was a common thread among all these unseemly events: and that was the volcano’s untimely eruption, which also acted as a catalyst for the ensuing chaos. The day started out just fine, if not a little bit disorganized. But it was the trip itself that did the most psychological damage. My parents (who were in the midst of a mid-life crisis) decided that an impromptu vacation to Mexico was the way to go. And who better to subject to incessant torture for seven days with no escape and definitely no surrender (I must never let them win) than their 31-year-old last-to-be-not-yet-wed daughter? We met at the airport ready to go the morning of December 20th. My parents were hauling what seemed to be multiple grown men in their suitcases, if size was anything to go by. The worst, however, was yet to come. I was wedged between both of my creators on the plane. The seating arrangement was so horrendous that my lingering trauma from the flight superseded that of the volcano expedition (childbirth is no miracle). On my left was my mother’s owlish eyes peering at me through three-inch-thick lenses, and on my right was my father’s gray and black Gandalf-like beard tickling everything from my face to my wrist. Then, the interrogation started. Let me tell you this: since the CIA needs to waterboard their interrogees to wrestle information out of them, they are not employing the right individuals. They can look here for my parents’ home number: 555-357-9004. It started with my mother: “Gretch, I really don’t know why you’re single. You’re a gem! Nice thick hair, green eyes, fantastic cheekbones. You look like Julia Roberts! You know how rare it is for a Jew to have green eyes?” Your sister and all seven of her kids have green eyes. My dad put his two cents in next. “And stick thin, I never see you eat. It could be that you’re single because you’re too thin; men like them a little heftier.” The last part he muttered. You told me last week that I was gaining too much weight and that “your metabolism isn’t what it used to be,” then proceeded to shovel four meal’s worth of food down my throat, then asked me why I was eating so much.
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