I was back in my time and room later that day, I lie on the bed and
listen to the muffled sounds of my family in the next room. I like it this
way. I'm home, but I don't have to deal with them. Sometimes I don't feel
related. A misfit in my own family. A family outsider, I guess that's an
oxymoron.
I take out my kaleidoscope from the bottom drawer of my desk. I stare into the eyepiece, turning the focus wheel slowly, watching the pieces drop into place. The big wheel of color is broken down into smaller wheels, and inside each of those circles are more wheels. Some kaleidoscopes use bits of plastic for color. When Grandpa gave me this one for Christmas two years ago, he said inside was made of glass. The wheel changes from turqouise to lime to slate, from daisy to dinner plate to royal crest.
It's the changing I love, how easy it is. First this, slight turn, then that. No big decisions. No hemming and hawing, as my mom would say. Why can't I change that easily?
I am determined to find a way to stop obsessing. If the Helpful Hints coloum in my magazine don't work, I'll find another way.
***********************************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~************* ******************
The next day, me and Grandpa head to the basement. No one in my family is as close to him as I am; they usually prefer to talk about social events and play board games. Sota ask if I feel like playing a game with him and mom. Part of me wants to. Another part of me wants to cover my head with a blanket and wish for him to leave. When I tell him no, Sota shakes his head, probably wondering why he bothered asking me in the first place. There's just no way for him to know that me, I never win at board games.
We finally get to the basement. It's the perfect day to keep busy. Seeing as how I'm taking a break from the feudal era. My magazine said that excercising,vacumming,and baking are good ways to keep busy. But I'm sure craft projects qualify.
I like to work alongside Grandpa, smell his pine soap scent, watch his eyes squint as he works. He takes out the tiny brass tools he used as a jeweler when he was young. He doesn't fix jewerly anymore; he makes little projects and sculptures out of things he finds. Wood,shells,old candlesticks holders, lots more.
He unfolds the worn canvas flap by flap, revealing the tiny brass hammer, the three pairs of tweezers, and the wire cutter with the worn ends. Then he hands me a few thing pieces of wood from the box.
"Let's see what you can do today," he says.
I search through the box. "Where are the instructions we used last time?"
"Improvise," Grandpa says as he closes the lid.
"But I don't want to." I open up the box again and take out the instructions for the picture frame we made last week.
"Ok," He concedes. "We'll follow the directions again."
I spread out the folded sheet in front of us and we work in silence for a long time. I like being next to him, like the ticking of his old fashioned watch, even the bits of dandruff on his sweater. I mention the shards I have collected. He seems pleased.
He smiles and tells me I'm doing a good job. We go back and forth between silence and small conversation until we are done with our projects. One of the nails on the bottom of my frame isn't flush. I hammer it down again, then hold it up for him to see.
"Very good," he says. "But you already know how to make a frame like that."
"I know. I like it." I try not to sound defensive.
"Next time we'll do a new project, ok? No instructions."
"Sure," I say. "Sounds great." What it actually sounds like is one of those subjective essays Mr. Muyoki gives us to increase our creativity.
As I sweep up the small bits of wood from the table, Grandpa kisses the top of my head. "I've got a surprise for you." He sits in the chair solemnly, then leans toward me and whispers, "I want you to have this." He hands me a box.
"Grandpa, it's not my birthday," I say.
"Of course not. Do I need a birthday to give my Kagome a present?"
Inside the box is a worn cloth envelope folded into thirds. A small bracelet is there. It has a rope woven inbetween the chain, and a small ruby hangs from it. It's beautiful.
"It's beautiful," I say. "I'll take extra-special care of it, I promise." I plan to never put it on, out of fear it might get lost of broken, but to put it in the bottom drawer next to my kaleidoscope.
I'm making progree, I think. Today I kept busy; my mind didn't wander to Mondays test, or to Inuyasha, or the jewel shards. Maybe this keeping busy thing is right for me.
I put the tools inside the box of wood and run upstairs. I love that they bracelet is mine and not a present for all of us. But Grandpa doesn't know me well enough if he thinks I'm going to make something without a manuel, next time.
It's not just a problem for making crafts; it's one of life's major flaws. There really should be an instruction manual.
I take out my kaleidoscope from the bottom drawer of my desk. I stare into the eyepiece, turning the focus wheel slowly, watching the pieces drop into place. The big wheel of color is broken down into smaller wheels, and inside each of those circles are more wheels. Some kaleidoscopes use bits of plastic for color. When Grandpa gave me this one for Christmas two years ago, he said inside was made of glass. The wheel changes from turqouise to lime to slate, from daisy to dinner plate to royal crest.
It's the changing I love, how easy it is. First this, slight turn, then that. No big decisions. No hemming and hawing, as my mom would say. Why can't I change that easily?
I am determined to find a way to stop obsessing. If the Helpful Hints coloum in my magazine don't work, I'll find another way.
***********************************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~************* ******************
The next day, me and Grandpa head to the basement. No one in my family is as close to him as I am; they usually prefer to talk about social events and play board games. Sota ask if I feel like playing a game with him and mom. Part of me wants to. Another part of me wants to cover my head with a blanket and wish for him to leave. When I tell him no, Sota shakes his head, probably wondering why he bothered asking me in the first place. There's just no way for him to know that me, I never win at board games.
We finally get to the basement. It's the perfect day to keep busy. Seeing as how I'm taking a break from the feudal era. My magazine said that excercising,vacumming,and baking are good ways to keep busy. But I'm sure craft projects qualify.
I like to work alongside Grandpa, smell his pine soap scent, watch his eyes squint as he works. He takes out the tiny brass tools he used as a jeweler when he was young. He doesn't fix jewerly anymore; he makes little projects and sculptures out of things he finds. Wood,shells,old candlesticks holders, lots more.
He unfolds the worn canvas flap by flap, revealing the tiny brass hammer, the three pairs of tweezers, and the wire cutter with the worn ends. Then he hands me a few thing pieces of wood from the box.
"Let's see what you can do today," he says.
I search through the box. "Where are the instructions we used last time?"
"Improvise," Grandpa says as he closes the lid.
"But I don't want to." I open up the box again and take out the instructions for the picture frame we made last week.
"Ok," He concedes. "We'll follow the directions again."
I spread out the folded sheet in front of us and we work in silence for a long time. I like being next to him, like the ticking of his old fashioned watch, even the bits of dandruff on his sweater. I mention the shards I have collected. He seems pleased.
He smiles and tells me I'm doing a good job. We go back and forth between silence and small conversation until we are done with our projects. One of the nails on the bottom of my frame isn't flush. I hammer it down again, then hold it up for him to see.
"Very good," he says. "But you already know how to make a frame like that."
"I know. I like it." I try not to sound defensive.
"Next time we'll do a new project, ok? No instructions."
"Sure," I say. "Sounds great." What it actually sounds like is one of those subjective essays Mr. Muyoki gives us to increase our creativity.
As I sweep up the small bits of wood from the table, Grandpa kisses the top of my head. "I've got a surprise for you." He sits in the chair solemnly, then leans toward me and whispers, "I want you to have this." He hands me a box.
"Grandpa, it's not my birthday," I say.
"Of course not. Do I need a birthday to give my Kagome a present?"
Inside the box is a worn cloth envelope folded into thirds. A small bracelet is there. It has a rope woven inbetween the chain, and a small ruby hangs from it. It's beautiful.
"It's beautiful," I say. "I'll take extra-special care of it, I promise." I plan to never put it on, out of fear it might get lost of broken, but to put it in the bottom drawer next to my kaleidoscope.
I'm making progree, I think. Today I kept busy; my mind didn't wander to Mondays test, or to Inuyasha, or the jewel shards. Maybe this keeping busy thing is right for me.
I put the tools inside the box of wood and run upstairs. I love that they bracelet is mine and not a present for all of us. But Grandpa doesn't know me well enough if he thinks I'm going to make something without a manuel, next time.
It's not just a problem for making crafts; it's one of life's major flaws. There really should be an instruction manual.