The task was to write something using the word:
finest
But that simply isn’t a word I frequently employ, either in my daily life or my writing life. Perhaps if the word were fine, I would have a hundred ideas for stories or essays, because that is a word I use excessively. Don’t we all? Aren’t we all fine or good every time someone asks us even if that’s the furthest thing from the truth? Don’t we often respond to requests with: “It’s fine. I can make it work,” even when the entreaty stresses us the fuck out? Isn’t it too regularly that we automatically answer apologies with, “It’s fine. No big deal,” even when we’re embittered or hurt?
But finest?? Only three things came to mind and none of them were things I was particularly eager to write about.
The first thing was pens.
I like a good pen. I grew up in the era just before cell phones and computers became ubiquitous— we took and passed actual notes in class when I was in high school. And I bullet journal now. So I have favorite pens with the finest of tips. But does anybody really care to read about that? Do I really care to write about that? I suppose I could pull out my keepsakes binders and look back at the numerous notes my friend Jenny and I passed back and forth and find something worthwhile there. But I’ve written about her before. And we don’t talk anymore. And I don’t much feel like glorifying the way we talked back then.
The second thing that came to mind was the finest thing I ever owned: my silver trumpet.
There weren’t a lot of presents under the tree for me that year. But that didn’t matter; I reveled in my gift. And I could talk about that. I could talk about how much I loved that silver trumpet and how much I loved being in band— concert band, jazz ensemble, marching band. I could talk about how supportive my dad was— how he literally got his bus driving license for the sole purpose of hauling our marching band equipment to Florida (from New York!). Or about my trumpet solo in the Syracuse Carrier Dome during the New York State Field Band Competition. Or our trumpet section’s penchant for time wasting instead of rehearsing— sneaking into the corn stalks neighboring our practice field for a game of tag when we should have been reviewing our parts.
But the silver trumpet seems to carry with it ten stories, not one.
Which brings me to the third thing.
Which is not a thing at all, but a phrase.
“He has the finest plastic surgeons operating on him.”
Notice I said surgeons, plural.
And they were part of an even larger group of doctors operating that day.
When this phrase floated out of the depths of my memories, I knew it was probably the story I should write. But I didn’t want to. I couldn’t bring myself to. And really, can you blame me? Who would relish walking down that particular memory lane? Who wants to think about incisions that were made through their brother’s gums, in the creases of his lower and upper eyelid, and on the side of his cheek? Who wants the image of his swollen, bruised, and bloodied face occupying their mind? Who wants to sit with thoughts of the singular tear that ran down his distorted cheek as he responded to the question “Who did this?” with a small “I don’t know”?
Besides, I’m not really sure it’s my story to tell.
In the end, to have something to share, I punched out these thoughts quickly and somewhat contemptuously, wishing for a better prompt. Not my finest effort.