Writing Through the Pandemic: November 10, Number 1

I want you to remember where you were when you heard the news on Saturday that put Joe Biden and Kamala Harris over the top on Saturday. Slow down and give me the sensory details and the reality of that moment for you. Slow down and tell me in detail what you saw, what you heard, what you smelled, what you said, what was said to you. Tell me in vivid, moment by moment detail, what that moment was like for you. Whether you were elated or devastated by the results, you can write a powerful piece recounting a hugely significant moment. 

You can share your response to this prompt below.

1 thought on “Writing Through the Pandemic: November 10, Number 1”

  1. Sharon Spence Rymer

    Cinghiale Kiss

    I was in a squat. My rust brown suede boots anchored in the loamy soil of La Landuccia releasing the musty fragrance of desiccated fall foliage, tobacco, manure, stacks of hay and of course, truffles…That same smell that I love to find in a good rich Tuscan wine. I was up to my ankles in colorful oak leaves – and in them, hidden like Cracker Jack prizes, were acorns. Cinghiale love acorns like I love M&M’s!
    My left hand pushed and spread the leaves blindly, feeling for the precious oval shaped morsels, while my right hand was extended – offering one at a time, an acorn treat to mama boar. She had such a long snout! It made up most of her head and I think she resembled more of an ant eater than a domestic pig. She is very agile with that snout! She wiggles and works her way through the brown sagging hogwire fence making little umph umph sounds when she smells the acorn.

    Her mouth is surprisingly gentle and I tease her with my bare fingers – feeling her little warn down teeth and soft pink gums. Our coarse wild hair is the same color – mostly brown with patches of gray and red and a few streaks of vanilla. But while hers is stiff and straight – a permanent kind of mohawk – mine is soft and curly resembling a burning bush in this late afternoon sun. That same sun lights up the silver streak on her forehead as I am sure it also does mine.

    I didn’t ask her age – but since, like me, her teats hang heavy from her last litter – I expect she is an equally mature and wise female. Our brown eyes meet and I feel her curiosity. I smile and the sound of crinkling paper reminds me that most of my face is covered in a blue surgical mask. She must think me a very odd sight!

    Her delicate hooves tap on the wire to get my attention and then she raises her few hundred pounds up – standing as if on the first rung of a ladder. Her head is now high above the fence and I stand up so that I can reach over and rub her bristly haunches – the caked mud flaking off and forming black ridges in my fingernails.

    Behind me I hear the loud and excited squeal of my god daughter Mallory. I turn to see her spinning around in the middle of a haypile – her green Barbour jacket like wings and the sunlight gleaming off her blond hair and electrifying the joy in her eyes. She is holding a four week old Maremmano – her hands and fingers buried in his thick black and white fluffy hair. Through her matching mask I hear the muffled cries of WE WON WE WON WE WON!

    Her loud exuberance has startled the sheep in the pen and the lambs are making their maaaa maaaa maaaa sound as they spring away on their rubbery legs.

    Somehow, deep in this remote Tuscan valley in the middle of a barnyard a What’s App has found its way to share the news.
    I reach down for another acorn to feed my friend and she sticks her dirty brown snout toward me and into my mask – a Cinghiale kiss!

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