I wrote this piece for my daughter to perform at a Debate competition. She never used it, but I fell in love with the piece and wanted to share it:
When I was a child, I always looked
up, searching the sky for a double rainbow and the happier days finding one
would certainly bring. Daddy once told
me a pot of gold sat in between the identical bands right at the base and it
was mine for the taking.
“If you can just imagine it, lassie,”
He’d say and I was convinced I would be the one to change our luck. Our family was unfortunate in the luck
department, but I was going to change all that.
We would never want for anything and our heartache would be replaced
with a contented feeling swallowing up the empty spaces.
Momma called the idea ridiculous, but
she was too busy looking at the rain falling over her head to ever notice hope. She didn’t like living in a shabby trailer in
the middle of a pile of garbage. The
ugliness blinded her. She never saw the flash
when clouds would separate—how the light filtered through the grey, coloring
away the drab, if only temporarily. In
those sacred moments, something stirred within me. The colors were magnificent—a divine gift
restoring my faith that anything was possible.
Yes, I believed in the pot of gold. Daddy was the only one who understood why—I believed
because I was born with a dreamer’s heart.
Once upon a time, Daddy had been a
dreamer too. Maybe that’s why Momma
pursed her lips whenever I showed any signs of sky-gazing, but it wasn’t always
so. There were old photos of their
younger days hidden inside a chest. Sometimes,
I would sneak into their room to steal a glance when Momma was busy frowning at
clouds. When Daddy and Momma were first
married, his head tilted upwards. Staring
at the heavens, he was waiting for his big chance, but with each passing year, disappointment
had his eyes lowering ever so slightly.
Until one day, he barely managed to look past the soles of his shoes. All of his aspirations were lost, torn away
by the storm inside of Momma. My eyes
had seen firsthand, just how destructive she could be.
“You’re dreams will never amount to
anything. You’re a loser, just like your
father was before you!” she would scream at him, pointing at an empty
refrigerator, or waived past due notices under his nose.
He never stood up to her, just stared
at the ground as the tears ran down his cheeks.
It’s hard to raise your head when someone is always pulling you down
with expectations you will never live up to.
“Why do you love her?” I once asked.
“Your mother is my rock,” he
replied—like the word “rock” explained everything. The answer made me angry. He wanted me to chase rainbows, but he wasn’t
strong enough to weather the storm.
He started drinking when I was ten and
I wanted blame him for checking out, but Momma did enough finger-pointing for
both of us. Funny, how her contentment
grew as the lines of despair creased into his leathered face, like his
unhappiness fed her storm. Didn’t she
notice the way he was suffocating under all her pressure? Daddy was a bird, broken and lost. He was meant to soar, but Momma’s turbulence
had torn his wings. He had survived, but
he would never fly again.
Time went by, and I watched daddy
sink a little lower each day. One day I
found him lying in the street. It was
raining but there were no rainbows in sight.
He was sick and miserable and I wondered if dreaming would bring me the
same fate. I started to doubt in the pot
of gold. What if momma was right and
thoughts of more contented days were silly?
What if daddy’s aspirations really were his downfall? The thought made my dreamer’s heart heavy
with disappointment. Suddenly, my head
started pulling down under the weight of my feelings, and momma was happy. Of course she was happy. My mind was growing more sensible, more like
her. Daddy became even gaunter with
illness and I hated him! I hated him for
making me believe in rainbows! I hated
him for lying to me! I hated him for
dreaming, but most of all, I hated him for leaving me…
I was only sixteen. Certainly not
old enough to weather the storm.
After daddy died, I never even looked
to the sky. What was the point? There was no pot of gold waiting for me or
any other form of hope. My dreams
weren’t special and even if I found my double rainbow, I’d never find my
heart’s desire waiting for me. The darkness
descended in the form of rainclouds pouring misery over my hanging head.
Years went by. I married and had a child of my own. I forgot
about rainbows and thoughts of better days.
Much to my dismay, I found my daughter to be foolhardy. Her dreamer’s heart refused to be sensible. I wanted her to be more like me—a practical
woman who was constantly planning a way to weather the inevitable clouds.
One day I went outside and my
daughter was standing in the rain again, staring up at the sky in wonder. I stalked after her and started to drag her
in.
“You’re ridiculous, gawking at the
sky in the middle of a storm!” I yelled at her, but she wouldn’t budge. Frowning, I glared at her then up at the
clouds in accusation.
In that moment, something amazing
happened and everything changed.
The darkness separated ever so
slightly, allowing a silver light to shine through, and there it was! A double rainbow—shining over the crown of my
daughter’s golden head. My treasure sat
in front of me for all those years, and I only had to gaze up.
Finally, I saw her for the precious
gift she was. Laughing at myself, I
grabbed her hands, spinning her around.
We giggled and danced as the droplets sprinkled our cheeks, masking my
tears of happiness. After a while I sat
down on a blanket of wet grass. I
noticed it was green as I held her close, happy the storm had came and the rain
had fallen.
“You see that double rainbow right
there?” I whispered into her ear. I
thought of the day I learned about rainbows.
Thinking of my daddy, I shared my dreamer’s heart.
