Winifred at New Year's
Winifred Turns 29 is about a mother barely surviving the turmoil of her mind, relationships, and parenting finding herself through the collision of the mundane and the fantastical.
12:00 a.m.
The stroke of midnight transformed Winifred just as thoroughly from a princess to a pauper as it did Cinderella. Numbly, she watched the New Year’s ball drop with the crowd. She didn’t count down with them. Then there were cheers; messy kisses and long, extravagant ones. Champagne glasses chimed and bells clanged.
And although Winifred stood in the midst of the celebrators, matching in her modest little black dress, she was isolated. Her heart pounded and she clutched her champagne to her chest. All external noise had faded, forgotten.
Winifred noted the soft yellow light that the room was bathed in. She pivoted, and walked out the door, into the dark, into her 30’s.
6:04 a.m.
Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound wasn’t getting louder, but the beat was speeding up. Winifred danced self-consciously among the flashing colors ricocheting around the club with a stranger. He had a ruddy face, blue eyes, tan stubble and was a good six inches taller than her. He was cute. She threw her hips in time to the dubstep, but she couldn’t exactly match it because the beat wasn’t consistent. The stranger cracked open a glow stick as he gyrated against her, grinning wickedly as he splashed the color all over her little black dress.
Thwack.
Winifred startled awake. The ceiling was gray, the walls were gray, the light peeking in from outside was gray, too. Husband’s face was also gray, chalky like death laying next to her, but his black stubble was a sharp contrast, ruining the monotony.
Thump. Thump. Thwack. The noise was atrocious. Husband groaned and turned over.
Winifred scurried out of bed just as her littlest, Baby, began caterwauling. She opened the door in a panic. It was how she awoke every morning.
Baby was precariously balancing against his yellow metal Radio Flyer dump truck. “Mama,” he grinned, letting go of his truck to reach up to her. As he let go, Baby wobbled and the truck thrust forward. He smashed into the metal rim, and the truck crashed into Winifred’s room. Baby’s cry was shrill and at one hundred decibels. The ruckus would wake everyone.
Husband grunted with annoyance, “just shut the door already!” He grabbed Winifred’s pillow and pulled it over his head.
It was going to be a beautiful morning.
“Winifred Turns 29 is about a mother barely surviving the turmoil of her mind, relationships, and parenting finding herself through the collision of the mundane and the fantastical. This is a snippet of her story.”