Object of Affection

Gatsby yearns for the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. Indiana Jones loves his hat and won't leave it behind. James Bond would like a dry martini, shaken, not stirred, with a lemon twist.Characters can have objects that become a defining part of their identity. Whether the objects are symbolic, humorous, or elegant, they make characters come to life on the page and immortalize them in readers' memories. I didn't have to open a book to know Gatsby, Jones, and Bond's objects of affection.An object is important because the character believes it is. This distinction is key. The author may think the symbol speaks for itself, but if the reader doesn't believe that John Doe cares about his crucifix, then the item loses its magic. The author might think a piece of jewelry is useless, but his heroine can see it as a connection to her grandmother. To paraphrase an Ann Beattie quote, the author should be in the character's power, not vice versa; break that rule, and the object will feel forced.***When I was a young boy, I loved dirt and grass and bugs, especially fireflies. I showed my father a firefly I had caught in my cupped hands, and he warned me to let it go. "It's done you no harm," he said. "And if you hold on to it too long, you'll probably hurt it." I surely wouldn't, my obstinate little mind said. When I tossed him into the air after five minutes of poking him, one of his wings didn't flap properly, and I was upset. My father has always remembered what it is like to love dirt and grass and bugs, so he didn't say anything to rub it in, and took me inside to clean up.Unlike my father, I often used to forget what I liked when I was younger. I am not as good a man as my father was. And so, when I met Jean, I was confused. On the hottest day of that summer I looked out the window and saw Jean, hunched over in the dirt. He was old, very old, and I watched him take breaks, shaking his arms against the pain, before happily furrowing the dirt once again with his trowel. Each day I saw him, this day spreading new seeds, the next sprinkling water across the soil, with quick, precise movements. And each day he would sit for a time before the patch of earth and do nothing.The mystery infected my thoughts. Deadlines raced toward me, and more deadlines, and more quotas, and more of my hours passed me by. In the evening as I struggled to relax I would find myself by the window, watching him work. He could sit so still, afterwards. When I could take it no longer I left my apartment and crossed the empty lot toward his patch of earth. Up close, I was surprised to see that he was tall."Shh," he said, though I had said nothing.I watched in silence for a long while. When I had reached the edge of my patience, he opened his eyes and smiled at me."The space between words is important, to a living thing," he said."Your garden is blooming," I said, an attempt at changing the subject."It isn't mine," he said. "Mine is in another place."The small green shoots that had pushed through the soil listened, with rapt attention. The old man stood and watered his plants."Would you like to see my garden?" he asked.I followed him across the grass to his apartment. The back porch was covered in green leaves and exotic flowers. A purple orchid rested on the bannister, and roses entwined themselves on the grating of a fence. But the beauty of the scene centered on a single white lily.The lily was covered with a glass screen, which the old man removed as if he would shatter the glass and the lily if he made a mistake. He placed his hand very close to the petals, but did not touch them. He did not tell me then, but I went back again and again to sit with Jean amongst his flowers, and on my visits I learned about the lily. She was as old as he was, he said. She had been a gift from his grandparents on the day of his birth. In winter, she slept, and each spring she returned, clean and white as ever.Some days he would sit in silence and gaze at her, and a small sadness would droop his eyes and mouth. I asked him what was wrong."Nothing," he said. "It's just that I know she can't stay with me forever. I do not know if I'll be able to go on caring for my other flowers once she's gone."***To be continuedGetting Started: 2Character: 2Point of View and Tone: 1Plot and Narrative: 1Dialogue and Voice: 1Descriptive Language and Setting: 1Revision: 1Overall: 1*Level 1*

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