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The old women next door was out in her garden again before five in the morning. Blowing the steam from my coffee, I took a sip and watched her bend over the rows of flowers. She reached between the ones with pink petals and yanked weeds in the same motion used when tweezing eyebrows, with swift, controlled jerks. Her hand would clamp, close and squeeze. Then the arm ripped up in one smooth movement. There she would pause, stopping at the same distance from the ground every time. With an abrupt sweep to the side, slender blades of grass would fall like spring green hair around her knees. The bright sap must stain her skin, clothes and the air around her because I could smell it from here.
The breeze carried the drone of her one-sided conversation with the black dog through my open window. His head rested on outstretched forelegs as he relaxed fully on his stomach. When I'd first pushed the window to let in the sound of birds, he'd noticed with a flick of ears but hadn't taken his gaze off her. Since moving in three weeks ago, I'd often thought about joining her in morning conversation. But she seemed grumpy in the way old people sometimes were, and I was particularly thin-skinned since my mother died.
Death and needles, bugs in the dark, and old age were all things we avoided thinking about. They never told us how many people died of natural causes. Instead we were given percentage lists of who got cancer, crashed their cars or drowned in the lake. My mouth was bitter with coffee dregs. I dumped the cup in the sink and walked away. Apple blossoms floated through the window and swirled as I sat at the table. A newspaper was folded neatly in front of me. The bold headline, “God Has Left California”, covered half the visible ...
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...d and jumped against me, almost knocking me over and I forgot her. “Watch out!” I laughed. “Yes, I know we're running late. No worries. The weeds won't grow faster than I can pull them.” He galloped around me playfully, happily, as my feet sank into the rich dirt of the garden. We'd been doing this for years. Serving in this garden was an honor and a task not left to fools.
Passing under the apple tree, I tapped a bright globe of fruit with my finger. The same fools never listened to warnings and would bite a poisoned apple if it looked good enough to eat. A snake, glistening with metallic rainbows, slid along the branch. Cupid stared, ears forward, until it was out of sight. “I wouldn't worry about him my friend.” I told him. “He's harmless.” It wasn’t as if I was wrong, I’d just lost the ability to give a damn. Right now there was rotted and wormy weeds to pull.
It was a village on a hill, all joyous and fun where there was a meadow full of blossomed flowers. The folks there walked with humble smiles and greeted everyone they passed. The smell of baked bread and ginger took over the market. At the playing grounds the children ran around, flipped and did tricks. Mama would sing and Alice would hum. Papa went to work but was always home just in time to grab John for dinner. But Alice’s friend by the port soon fell ill, almost like weeds of a garden that takes over, all around her went unwell. Grave yards soon became over populated and overwhelmed with corpse.
For example, one of their dogs, Boris, was able to push Flea around in his wheelchair. The widow asked how Flea had taught him to do that and he claimed “ I didn’t” (27). She felt very unhappy about this because it was her job as the wife to take care of her husband. She felt as if the dogs had taken over the role of caregiver and she was not happy about it at all.
It was a spring afternoon in West Florida. Janie had spent most of the day under a blossoming pear tree in the back-yard. She had been spending every minute that she could steal from her chores under that tree for the last three days. That was to say, ever since the first tiny bloom had opened. It had called her to come and gaze on a mystery. From barren brown stems to glistening leaf-buds; from the leaf-buds to snowy virginity of bloom. It stirred her tremendously. How? Why? It was like a flute song forgotten in another existence and remembered again.
“Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her “fur” for that Sunday afternoon in the park. Her little friend she wore around her neck would be the perfect companion to enjoy such a beautiful day. After going to the park and sitting down, Miss Brill wishes to talk with the other people sitting about, but they never make a sound, though after this she admits to listening to their conversations. “She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn’t listen, at sitting in other people’s lives just for a minute while they talked round her.” Within moments, Miss Brill is commenting on other people: The old people who sat on the benches like statues, the little children running here and there, a beautiful woman accidentally dropping violets on the floor, and once a little boy picks them up and tries to...
Americans at the end of their lives no longer have this sense of continuity and stability. Rituals today are as likely to include tubes and noisy machines, artificial ventilators and unpleasant drug regimens bringing as many unpleasant side effects as health benefits. Many times the dying languishes in a hospital bed, surrounded not by the comforts of home and family but rather by sterility and bright lights, strangers and hushed voices. Death is no longer a mysterious part of a cherished tradition but a terrifying ordeal to be postponed as long as possible, an enemy that must be fought off at all costs.
Have you ever wondered what your pets are thinking? Personally, I wonder all the time. I purposely mess with my dog to see how he reacts. Well, now you can at least get an idea of what they are thinking. The humorous short story, ¨A Conversation With My Dogs,¨ by Merrill Markoe is about a dog owner who is having a conversation with her dogs Bob and Stan about how they follow her around everywhere. The author is attempting to portray the thoughts of dogs when communicating with them. In this instance, the owner is confused about why they want to follow her everywhere. This short story is a high comedy that uses witty humor and situational irony to make the audience laugh while giving the lesson.
My grandmother has a certain look in her eyes when something is troubling her: she stares off in a random direction with a wistful, slightly bemused expression on her face, as if she sees something the rest of us can’t see, knows something that we don’t know. It is in these moments, and these moments alone, that she seems distant from us, like a quiet observer watching from afar, her body present but her mind and heart in a place only she can visit. She never says it, but I know, and deep inside, I think they do as well. She wants to be a part of our world. She wants us to be a part of hers. But we don’t belong. Not anymore. Not my brothers—I don’t think they ever did. Maybe I did—once, a long time ago, but I can’t remember anymore. I love my grandmother. She knows that. I know she does, even if I’m never able to convey it adequately to her in words.
John L McIntosh. (2003) . Handbook of Death and Dying. Volume 1: The Presence of Death. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Reference.
...ots her memory, the blossoms her dreams, and the branches her vision. After each unsuccessful marriage, she waits for the springtime pollen to be sprinkled over her life once again. Even after Tea Cake's death, she has a garden of her own to sit and revel in.
The wind whispered outside my flower curtains. My Rosemary garden swayed to the noiseless tune. I sit quietly watching their soft movement, the flowers I worked hard to nurse. The rest of my yard remained parched, with time it had given defeat to the hot Alabama sky.I glared at the cracked dirt, cursing it for giving in to the pressure, praying I won't do the same .I sip the cool lemon ice tea, the cubes of ice brush on my dry lips.
Imagine walking down an ancient path amidst a forest of tangled and twisted trees, some of which have existed since before a time even great grandparents can remember. The air echoes with sounds of life, and the fragrance is that of cedar or juniper… or something not quite either. The living things that dwell here, bridge a gap in time that many are totally unaware of and for the reasons about to be explained, may never become so. The beauty that surrounds this place is unexplainable in the tongue of man, yet its presence can be felt by all who choose to behold it. At least for now…
The people in this community would care less if someone died right in front of them. For example, when the babies were little they used to give them shocks if they were from the low class. They gave shocks to the little babies who were playing in the rose so that for the rest of their lives, they would be scared of something like that. “They’ll grow up with what psychologists used to.safe from books and botany all their lives.” (22)....
In "Kew Gardens," the narrator follows different visitors to the gardens, giving the reader brief snapshots of their lives through small descriptions as they reach the same flowerbed. The story begins with a description of the oval-shaped flowerbed. The flowers are red, yellow, and blue. They have petals that are heart or tongue shaped. As the petals fall to the ground, they stain the earth with these colors for a moment. Petals from the flowers soar through the sky in the summer breeze. The flowers' colors flash in the air. On this July day, men, women, and children walk through the gardens. As the people move through the gardens, their movements resemble butterflies. They zigzag in all directions to get a better view of the flowers.
Even though dying is a natural part of existence, American culture is unique in the extent to which death is viewed as a taboo topic. Rather than having open discussions, we tend to view death as a feared enemy that can and should be defeated by modern medicine and machines. Our language reflects this battle mentality, we say that people "combat" illnesses, or (in contrast) "fall victim" to them after a "long struggle." Euphemistic language also gives us distance from our discomfort with death, (Grohol, 2013). People who die are "no longer with us", have "passed", gone "to meet their Maker", “bought the farm”, “kicked the bucket", and so on.
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.