I. Author. 004

   Francisco Palacios, one of my best pals in the fourth grade was

all smiles after winning top prize in our Mother's Day card contest. Mr. Lopez couldn't say enough about the glitter rainbow, the rose petal red lettering, and the overall creativity of the piece.

   For my part...let's just say that good old Elmer's glue and I got into a major fight...and I lost. 

   Badly.

   I gently squeezed the tube but a plug of dried gum kept it from flowing and when I pulled the plug with my trusty number two pencil, the white goo flowed like the rivers of Babylon. The thin construction paper had no shot at keeping its integrity. It swelled and sagged, blotching the letters I had so carefully written with thick felt markers. Ruined.

   By Saturday night, I actually had tears in my eyes when Mom sternly told me to go to bed. I had nothing to give her. I ran out of time.

   "What's gotten into you?" Mom asked as she brushed my hair off my face.

   "Nothing," I replied, fighting against the tears. My mother did so much for me every single day and I'd failed miserably at doing one thing for her.

   "Were you and Freddy watching Monstruocinema again?"

   I shook my head quickly. The Friday night monster feature was often responsible for my bouts with sheer terror in the middle of the night, but cheesy films like Dracula vs Werewolf were so worth the fright.

   "Then what is it?" Mom probed.

   I wanted to come clean, confess I was a terrible son for ruining her Mother's Day card. I could almost hear her cries as I wrapped my book and a pair of shorts in a sack, and saying goodbye forever, knowing she deserved better.

   Instead, I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her cheek goodnight. 

   Mom released me from her scrutiny a long moment later and I spent half the night tossing and turning until I couldn't take it anymore. 

   I sat at the old metal desk and looked forlornly at my Star Wars pencil. I'm not an artist like my dad, but the lined sheet of paper before me beckoned the charcoal tip.

   Mom,

   If I'm a good student, it's all because you won't let me off the desk until I finish my homework. 

   If Mrs. Sarita calls me a good, respectful little boy, it's because you teach me manners.

   You've made me who I am and I thank you for each lesson you taught me. 

   I want you to know that I don't need a special day to tell you how happy I am that you are my mom, but I'm glad for today because what I feel means so much more.

   I love you.

   Happy Mother's Day!
   your son, Javier

   The sweaty palm of my left hand left a horrid grayish smudge all along the beginning of each sentence. I was so irate I simply folded the offensive piece of paper in quarters, but I was too sleepy to tear it. I went to bed an utter failure. Had I not been so tired, I would've loaded up a small sack and hit the road.   

I slept through breakfast and when I woke, I was starved. With single minded focus, I went for the bread box and proceeded to devour rolls until I spotted a note from Mom on the fridge door.

   Took your sister with me to the store. I'll bring you back a surprise.
   
   "A surprise?" The initial smile vanished as I remembered my plight from the wee hours of the morning. 
   What little remained of the tasty roll in my hand fell on the table as I raced out of the kitchen. I had to come up with something for Mother's Day! I was about to take the first stair when one of the picture frames on the living room wall caught my eye.
   Behind the glass was a familiar piece of hastily torn paper out of a spiral notebook. Smudged, creased unevenly from when I folded it, my letter stared back at me with two additions.
   The first was a line written in Mom's neat cursive: I'm the luckiest mom. May 13th, 1984
   The second were a pair of dried teardrops that left two transparent circles on the paper.  I sighed with utter relief. I didn't have to pack a sack and hit the bricks after all. My writing saved my hide! Triumph!
   I even heeded my competitive nature and bet Francisco's fancy, glittery card was too thick and clumsy to fit in Mrs. Palacios' best picture frame in their living room. 
   Something in my brain clicked into place, making me grin like a butcher's dog. I had always thought only works of fine art made it onto frames. 
   Until that day...
   

to be continued...

   Did you ever write your way out of trouble?