Sanguine

1.

The pen slipped from my grasp, creating a deep, blue gash across the length of my script and seeping through the loose leaves.

Irrevocable. I stared at it with disdain.

The flickering bulb of the study, yearning to be rested like me, caught my attention and I groaned in response.

But I have to finish it by midnight!

The director had given me one last chance to create a tangible playscript. And the bleeding page of the incomplete project in front of me was anything but.

Though I couldn't see the clock, its ticking prickled my senses like an annoying fly.

I picked the pen up, my fingers unsteady, pulse heightened. Its golden, brass barrel reflected my tired self, elongated comically like in the Chuck E. Cheese photo booths that I used to frequent as a child with my mother.

Once in third grade, Mom stood in front of me as I sat in one of their booths, my face droopy like the ice cream in my hands.

Even hours of playing games and eating icecream didn't tower over the fact that I had failed to make the cut for the semifinalists of the Spelling Bee.

My mother was no athletic superwoman or an enigmatic influencer, but she did-- still does-- have a knack of seeing right through me.

And as she crouched, looking resolute, she theorized that those that always win have no room for growth because they're already at the top. But those that work their way up, slowly and steadily, are the ones that find meaning in life.

She advised me to always look up to myself-- my past self-- in hopes of being a better person than I was yesterday.

What did that teach me? Resilience, self-improvement, and sanguinity.

The encouragement she poured into me that day has always been enough to keep me going like lubricated machinery. And in the instances when I'm burnt out, I like to twirl the pen that is a makeshift photo booth from that day and remind myself of Mom's words.

I finally glanced up at the clock. Twenty minutes left.

With renewed fervor, my eyes searched for the framed picture shoved back by the stacks of paper and piles of stories atop my desk.

The monochrome picture shone through, our faces spanning across the entire frame: my eyes wide set and shining (after the pep talk) and mom's proud smile sloping upwards as she enveloped me in a side hug.

Inspiration struck. And I finally put the pen back to paper. I keep it running because women like Mom deserve to be thanked every day-- not by mere words, but actions that are an embodiment of their values.