Pacheco Family chaos

 I needed that

Empty ideas, no thoughts of creativity, shook my writing confidence to the core. I was losing the desire to chase after the imagination that quietly left me like a cheating spouse, walking away, leaving me without much of an explanation of why. With a deep sigh, I realized that I needed to get out and find a new space to restart my thinking process.

I threw my hair up into a messy bun held up by my lucky pencil, flung my oversized hoody on just before placing my laptop into a striped three-pocket diaper bag that I converted into my computer bag. Grabbing the keys to my Ford Focus, I began my way outside, making sure to watch for ideas that might hotwire my thoughts to start my final essay. Nothing! Nothing would spark my interest as I put the key into the ignition and pressed the start button. "Heaven help me," I whispered.

As I wondered where in the world to go, I began driving to Tombstone. I figured the fifteen-minute drive would do me some good, and since the sun was barely burning my eyes, it was early enough to find a sitting spot at Mario's Bakery Café. I rarely go there, I am not much of a coffee drinker, but I figured I could get a hot chocolate and a lemon bar.

I turned up the volume, singing along with Sia's Bird Set Free. Driving into Tombstone felt so fresh that my demeanor wholly transformed because of the change in the atmosphere. I rolled my window down and allowed the crisp air to brush across my face while the breeze was messing with my bun, making it live up to its name. Before I knew it, I was pulling into the parking lot of the small café. There was no problem finding a place to park at Mario's, so I felt privileged to park right in front of the entrance.

While getting out of the Focus, I hear someone yelling my name, "Toi. Oh my gosh! Toi, is that you?" Before I knew it, I had two arms wrapped around my neck. "Hey! It is good to see you, Chantria," I said, surprised with a hint of frustration because I wasn't there to talk about the good O' days. Politely I asked, "How are you doing?" Chantria quickly replied, "I am doing great. I was getting some coffee. Want to join me?" I agreed to go inside accompanied by my old friend but was entirely committed to writing my paper. I was only going to allow this distraction to be brief.

Walking into Mario's, there was the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee with the comforting scent of lemon bars just brought out of the oven in the back, as if the cook knew I was coming. Chantria and I sat at a table in the corner of the Café' near a window. It was the perfect spot to do some writing, so I pulled out my laptop, hoping that my high school friend would know that I had a purpose and that I wasn't there for reconnection.

After a short moment, the timid waiter came and asked what we wanted to order, and I nudged Chrantria to go ahead and place her order. She requested a blueberry muffin and a small decaf coffee with sugar and cream. I felt a little kid-like when I asked for whipped cream on my hot cocoa and a dusting of powdered sugar on my lemon bar.

I pushed the power button on my laptop and set it to the side facing the window to allow myself the ability to glance out of it from time to time. Curious, Chantria asked, "Do you have to work?" "No," I responded. I began to give her a summary of what I was doing. Before I could finish, Chrantria interrupted me and interestingly asked, "Is the creative writing course hard?" I smiled and began to tell her about the writing project that I was desperate to find the beginning word to create a flow of finger tapping on my keyboard.

The words that rolled off my tongue sounded as if I had been taking a writing class forever. I looked at Chantria and had explained to her that there was a passion deep within me in creating words to move others while seeking comforting words of encouragement to complete another page. Writing isn't about pushing words together that might make sense. It is a method of expanding our inner selves, an intimate relationship with our imaginations. "I would have a hard time telling you about my hard days," I told Chantria, "but I would be able to barf it all out on paper and give you a vivid view into my life." Chrantria looked at me and asked, "Can't anyone be a writer?" As if she lacked the understanding that there was any flair or aptitude involved. I looked at her straight in the eyes and firmly stated, "Of course! But writing, along with a person's intellect, will be judged."

Chantria took the last sip of her decaf and wiped the crumbs from her muffin off the table, placing them onto her napkin. There was a brief moment of awkward silence. I decided to wrap up the conversation with a simple statement. I told my intelligent old friend that the writing course was taxing and that I thrived off the intense challenge. The time spent reading and editing, going back to do more editing, was tiresome but rewarding. "Taking creative writing has taught me that my sentences, in any form of writing, should be fluent and flow smoothly together," I said with a half-grin. "If you don't mind having your writing critiqued and you truly want to expand your ideas, a creative writing course is a great way to help you in your writing experience," I said with confidence.

Chantria and I gave each other one last hug and said our goodbyes. As she left the café, I thought to myself,  "What an odd conversation to have with the valedictorian of our senior class." As I sat back down and got back to my laptop, my fingers flowed, and before I knew it, my final writing assignment was complete. I paid for the hot cocoa and lemon bar, walked with a slight skip to my silver Ford Focus with a smile on my face, and drove home with the window down, once again dueting at the top of my lungs with Sia.