Writing 101, Day Nine: Changing Moccasins — Point of View

Men don’t cry. Ever. That’s the truth. That’s how I was raised. Yet here I am sobbing like a baby. Howling like a weeping woman and I do not have the luxury of blaming my hormones. I take  a deep breath of the crisp autumn air and then another. Oak leaves falling all around me. Wiped my nose on my sleeve because I didn’t carry a hankey, why?? because men don’t cry. I have to pull myself together. I have to pretend to Mum that this is a joyous occasion. I am not sending her away to die. I am sending her away to live. If that’s the truth, why I am crying?

Honestly David is being ridiculous. Mum is happily knitting, she doesn’t even know we are here and my brother is sobbing like a baby. Who said men are the stronger sex. What a joke. My whole entire life its been the woman off the family who have carried the family. I fumbled in my handbag, found my lighter, lit my smoke and checked the time. One hour & 27 minutes until school finishes. I had expected to have Mums washing blowing in the breeze before I had to pick up the kids but at the rate we are going I am going to have to send them to After School Care. I don’t understand his reluctance. We knew this time was coming, it’s for her own safety, it’s not like we are sending her away to die. This is the year 2014, a nursing home is the only option

What a lovely autumn day. The park looks so pretty. The leaves, orange and yellow and red, hmm lovely.  I’ll just finish my knitting and then I can go collect the kids from school. David is going to look lovely in this bright red sweater. I might pop in to the shop on the corner, buy some pork chops, that lovely lad, Tony? Andy? Tommy, oh blast what is his name.  Large man, lovely butcher, always gives me the best cuts even in the midst of a blasted war. All this trouble in Europe. My Harold, sent all that way to fight. Australians rising to King Georges aid. Oh my that poor man under the oak is crying, crying like a baby. Must have had a fight with his lady friend. Poor dear. What a hard woman she must be, he is sobbing and not a tear on her face, in face she looks rather annoyed. Well I think I will pack up my knitting and make my way to the train station. Harold will be home from work soon and he does love it when I meet the train.

A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.

Today’s twist: write the scene from three different points of view: from the perspective of the man, then the woman, and finally the old woman.

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