According to our hair stylist, my grandma and I resemble each other.

I got my haircut yesterday. All the split ends are chopped off. We both have short hair now.

My grandma lives with us now because of my grandpa’s anger.

My parents decided she couldn’t live in that house anymore. I think I was always worried about her.

When I lived with them in my final semester of college I was caught in more than a few one-sided arguments. I did my best to diffuse them every night over dinner.

I had never told anyone that I used to think my boyfriend and I were just like my grandparents. They both loved him.

I was usually only his verbal punching bag in private. No one at that dinner table - the four of us - would have understand the problem.

Two men who make messes and two women who walk behind them to clean up. Denial is a full-time job.

Two women meet in secret, covered in scrapes and bruises, to patch each other up. And we apologize to our friends for the behavior of the men we’re with.

We had to tell lies about them.

"He's not that bad - I'm actually the problem" or "I was the one who started it"

It's easy to tell lies when you don't have to make them up yourself. I was fed these words. I was just his parrot.

My grandma said she was scared of him. My mom had to explain to both of us that this isn’t normal. How she’s never been afraid of my dad.

I know what it feels like to be scared, to stay up all night in fear, to be yelled at for not coming to bed.

I learned how to make myself cry until he apologized because that was the one time he held me.

60 years is so much longer than 5. It’s hard to swim to the surface when you’re drowning in water that’s deeper.

The sunk cost fallacy. I know it too well. I’ve done this long enough not to waste it. I can fix his mistakes. I can look past them. I am a bitch and it is my fault. I’m worthless, I’m useless, and he’s perfect because he once was. I can change it, I can fix him - it became my mantra.

I became tiny, so he could fill up the space, so he could be loud. Until my voice completely disappeared and I could no longer speak his lies at all.

The snipping sound of the hair-cutting shears is crisp like the air in October. I watch the damaged hair fall like dead leaves. I smile at myself in the mirror.

I am just like my grandma and we both have new haircuts.

Firstly, thank you to those who participated in this challenge. 20 people have entered the challenge, and only 1 can be the winner. I have also decided to give some honorable mentions as well - mostly to those whose writing has stood out to me. To those who did not get an honorable mention or an invisible medal from me, remember that it does not mean that your writing sucked. Everyone has a different taste in writing, and just because you did not win, does not make your writing less valuable than it already is. Just remember that <3

I've read through and hearted every single piece, and with that, it's time for honorable mentions first. These folks have stood out the most, and I would like to applaud them for an honorable mention.

Congrats to:

@Plexiglassfruit https://theprose.com/post/757066/things-i-have-lost

@DrSemicolon https://theprose.com/post/758890/as-the-carillon-plays-so-my-life-plays-out

@fieldsofcare https://theprose.com/post/757482/what-i-miss-most

@goldstar https://theprose.com/post/755599

You guys got an honorable mention, and this is because your writing has wowed me and it felt a bit unfair for me to not include you guys.

And with that, here is the winner.

Congrats to:

@__abby__ for winning this challenge!!

Please give their writing some love: https://theprose.com/post/757247/finding-me-again

Not only did your writing feel raw, but it resonated with my feelings the most. This challenge is mostly a challenge to see who resonated with my feelings the most, and you successfully found me, as if there was another version of me somewhere.

Thank you to all who participated. Reading every single piece of writing was an enjoyable time, and I loved smiling and feeling sorrow and feeling a sense of joy in every single piece of writing while reading them. Every single piece of writing did such a unique take for the prompt, and I applaud to everyone for that.

And if you're wondering what my take for the prompt would be,

it would be to search for myself

in that treasure box

too

xx

This is a true story. It was related to me by my grandmother, my Omi, before her dementia set in. I honestly, truly, believe this could be made into a film.

--------------------------------------

On October 21st, 1952, Omi's 20th birthday, it was time for her to leave her family and country. She was to leave the Netherlands and reunite with her fiancee in Canada. He had gone on ahead 2 years prior. He was a hardworking man, and had served in Indonesia in the Dutch Navy before going to Canada. During his time in service, he wrote Omi 360 letters.

Omi could not pack very many belongings. She had to decide what to do with the letters, and did not want her younger sisters to read them - so, she burned them.

Omi's mother, sister, and aunt said goodbye to her at the train station. Her dad and father-in-law-to-be went with her on the train to Rotterdam. Once there, they got permission to come aboard for a visit, since Omi's father had been a customs officer. They toured the ship, and the time came to say goodbye.

Omi, now age 92, told me, "I can still see my dad standing there. It was the last time I saw him."

From Rotterdam, the ship sailed to France. Upon leaving Le Havre, the weather became very stormy. Omi shared a hut with seven other woman and a baby; his little steel crib would slide from side to side in the cabin, moved by the swaying of the ship upon the ocean.

Staying in the cabin was lonely; several of the other women were standoffish. They were traveling with family, and did not talk to other people. She had no one her age to talk to in her living space, so she spent time touring the ship.

Her wanderings led her to meet a young gentleman with a story similar to hers; he was sailing to Canada as well, to meet his own fiancée. Omi and the young man had something in common, and it made her feel safer and less alone. They spent most of the trip in each other's company, talking about Canada - what would it be like? How would the landscape look? How would life be different there? They would have to study English. Dutch was not the common language in Canada.

After 12 days of sailing, the ship reached Canada. Omi's plan was to take the train from Halifax to Union Station in Toronto; the young man was also going to Toronto, and asked: why do we not travel together? We can keep each other company a little longer.

Omi agreed.

The train was very old. There were no blankets, and passengers had to sleep on wooden benches. Pillows could be rented for $0.25 a night.

Omi did not like the Canadian scenery; the weather was very dreary. But the trip was a lot more pleasant in the young man's company.

He lent Omi his coat to use as a blanket. She was shy to sleep next to a man she did not know, but he turned his back to her and faced the wall so she would feel more comfortable. She turned her back to his and they slept like that for the 2 nights it took to arrive.

At 6:00 a.m. on the 3rd day, they arrived in Toronto and disembarked. The young man waited with Omi at the station for her fiancée.

Omi's fiancée arrived with a cane. He had been in a motorcycle accident, and was still recovering. Along with him was his brother, who had just gotten off work at a mechanic shop, and was covered in grime and oil.

The young man was hesitant to leave Omi when he saw this. He was concerned for her safety. She reassured him that she would be fine, and, eventually, he left.

Omi and her fiancée were married a week later.

Life in Canada was a hard adjustment. Omi did not speak much English, and her husband did not either. They had not been together for 2 years, and it took time to grow used to each other again. He found work at a factory doing manual labor, and Omi busied herself with housework. It was not long before she discovered she was pregnant.

A year passed.

Things were easier now then at the beginning. Omi was a happy mother, doting on her little boy. Her husband was learning conversational English from his workplace, and Omi was doing the same in her bible study at the church they had recently become members of.

On a warm Saturday morning, Omi was serving pancakes to her husband, and spoon feeding applesauce to her little boy, when there was a knock at the front door of the house.

She went to open it. Standing in the doorway was the young man from the ship.

He had not married his own fiancée. They had gone their separate ways.

He had used the passenger listing information from the ship to track down Omi's whereabouts.

He wondered if maybe - just maybe - if she had not gotten married either.

He wondered if she would be with him.

When Omi told me this story, she could not give all the details of the interaction; she could not bring herself to say everything.

She told me, however, that after saying goodbye and closing the door, she stared at that door for a long time.

Then, slowly, she went back to the kitchen, where her little boy and her husband - my Opi - were waiting.

She never saw the young man again. One year, while cleaning, she threw away her own copy of the passenger listing, not thinking about how time changes things, not thinking how one day, she might want to look at it again.

That is her biggest regret.

She does not even remember his name.

Sisyphus had to face eternal torment. His toil required so much more exertion. But his true happiness came from the meaninglessness of his actions. It is that to which we relate. The movie I watched today. The books I read. The time I spend with temporary people. It's all going to end. I will know the grave. And for all my misery, I'm surprisingly optimistic. Maybe the loneliness of the grave will not hurt as much. To be lonely among the ones you're meant to love, that is true hell.

We're all men doomed to drive boulders up a hill. And the greatest comedy of it all is, we chose those boulders when we didn't really need to. It makes me laugh when I realize it. We chose to drive boulders uphill because we love it. We love to suffer. When all we could do is nothing but the mere minimum. Do what is commanded and die. We'll be rewarded with glorious eternity. We can do all we desire beyond the grave.

I struggle to articulate it, but I want to be able to say it. What I mean is, death makes null all those boulders we so fruitlessly push uphill. Rather than preach life and living to the extreme, we should preach the lessons of the dead and the dying. We should teach one to die as one desires.

A good life is one spent preparing for a good death.

In the dilemma of bliss and suffering imposed on humanity, I choose finite suffering over finite bliss. Such is the evil of fleeting joys that it takes from us the death all men deserve. It entraps us in its boulders and hills. And it's falsehoods and dreams.

I'd be willing to trade temporary happiness for the expectation of reward any day. To see what awaits me when I am at the top of the hill does not matter. What we imagine awaiting us is so much more beautiful than reality can ever be.

If I could search for the one thing I lost, it would be the thing I lost first.

My girlhood.

I lost it before I knew what it was; what it meant to even be a girl. I think I lost it too young. It was first taken from me when I was born, fighting for my life in the hospital. It was taken from me at five when my mother would ignore me, and my dad would punish me for simply being a little kid. It was taken from me at eight when I was abused by a family member. It was taken from me at nine when my older sister never wanted to spend time with me, or did sisterly things. I couldn't understand why she didn't want to play with me. Girlhood was taken from me when I would get made fun of for playing with Barbies and liking the color pink. So, I stopped playing with toys, started crushing on boys, and switched to the color blue. Girlhood was taken from me when I realized I couldn't keep a female friend in elementary school; I thought there was something wrong with me. Girlhood was taken from me before I reached 13 because I had to act like an adult and treat my older brother as if I was the older sister instead. Girlhood ended for me when I saw all the girls in my class looking and acting like normal teenagers, and I always felt so out of place. I saw everyone out with their friends, doing normal teenage girl activities, not me though. Girlhood ended for me when my sister had her first baby at 20. As I got older, I was treated as just an aunt and fill-in babysitter, and no longer a kid or younger sister. No longer a person. Girlhood ended when my mom only chose men above her own kids. My girlhood ceased to exist at 17 when the doctors told me I would never be able to have kids. My girlhood stopped when the depression overtook me and controlled my entire life. I guess the question is: Did I lose my girlhood, or did I ever really have it at all? I just wanted to have a normal life, be free to be a girl, in a girl-loathing world; in a girl-loathing family. I've never been able to experience real girlhood, and I've been desperate to get it back. I don't want to continue getting older and realizing that I missed out on so much. I want to find it again, and embrace it. I've been thinking a lot about girlhood recently. Does anyone know how to rediscover girlhood?

If i had a box of everything i'd ever lost,

my first instinct would be to look for you;

your interest, your attention, your love.

It would of course, be a large box, filled to the brim,

overflowing with replaceable, material things,

so I wouldn't find what I was looking for right away.

I'd be searching for hours, days, maybe even months,

combing through hair accessories, reading thoughts I wrote down and threw away,

occasionally finding something meaningful I wasn't expecting to see again.

And over time, I would start to think about the little things I've lost;

like the smile I had saved for the rain, or for seeing your face,

and I'd remember what it felt like to be me.

So after months of exploring this giant, never ending box of treasures,

I'd finally realize what it is that I need to find again;

me, or rather, my confidence.

I would remember the first time I lost it, when my fist love walked out te door.

I'd remember how she was able to restore me to my former pre-breakup glory

and I'd try to think about the last time I felt like me; its been a long time coming.

So m final answer, is that,

if I had a box filled with all the things I'd ever lost, the first thing I would want to find,

is me.

you hand under my leg

under the oil painted sky

wind blowing through our hair

on the 405

traffic is at a standstill

it's LA, what'd you expect

we're listening to Zeppelin

you're kissing my neck

you cradle me in youu arms

in the dark, in the back

we're looking at the stars

moon's lit Cheshire Cat

you parents can probably

see through the window

they'll say "they're just kids

what the hell do they know"

scared

i love you so much i'm scared

cuz they say young love's a loss or it's a lesson

here

i just want to be here

my heart is telling me

we won't be the exception

Lavender.

All I want is to give her lavender.

Well, I actually want her hand in mine and to hear my name from her lips: "Zoey".

And yet, here I stand on her doorstop, afraid to ring her bell.

We have been friends and neighbors forever and my heart races thinking about the only two possiblities. Dating or never hanging out again. There was NO way she talk to me again if she rejected me.

I found the smallest courage and raised my hand to the bell, only for her to open the door first.

She smiled. "Hi."

"Hi, Liz."