Rudy, he was found by Jenny. He was in a ditch, a puppy, and I picture him barely holding on, clinging to the side like balsa wood that gets caught with the foam and bobs about before finally being pulled under.
Things found, I’ve found interesting stores, although they’re not really found. If you think about the word “found” or “discovered,” you realize nothing is actually ever lost, necessarily. Columbus “found” America, yet here were the indigenous peoples, Aztecs and others, just living and being, not wanting at all to be discovered.
I’ve found finds, my mind keeps traveling back to Asian antiques or modern outdoor furniture, like those places I stumbled on in the Pearl District in Portland Tuesday night. I’ve found great restaurants.
Oh how I wish I could write about finding something else, a pure find, like finding my inner artist, finding a piece of my heart that was frozen or not functioning, discovering a new compassion, a kindness for people or animals or children, my own. That’s the kind of discovery I want to make.
I want to discover the warmth of Dad’s hands, his perfect fingernails, how meaty yet solid his palm is, like it’s built-up muscle, and I want to discover the deep understanding of why a father’s hand can be so powerful.
I want to see on Dee’s chin the same beauty mark that belonged to Mom, find it there, as if I had never noticed that Mom lost it (of course she did, she had it burned off years ago).
-NOTE: I did this writing practice with one of my writing groups.
-From Topic post, WRITING TOPIC – WHAT HAVE YOU LOST.