My mother use to be “an active volcano.” Now she is 77, older and frail. I felt guilty. This feeling does not abandon me when I am thinking how I have rarely visited my mother. How is she? I have not seen her for couple years, but soon, very soon I will see her. I hurried to embrace her again. The taxi rushed on an empty road. It was an early summer morning. I was looking through a window. Light fog was spreading on the land, enveloping trees and bushes and making a view similar to a mirage. Sunrise commenced. On the skyline the sun, as a giant orange-red sphere, was lifting giving to a landscape the warm nuances and more legible forms. In the distance appeared houses. The taxi was driving across the village where I grew up. Since I left, when I was seventeen years old, I have only arrived for a rarely and briefly visit my family. The taxi pulled over next to the fence around the parent house. I could smell a fragrant from my childhood. It is a particular village odor, which is a blend of a fresh, pure air with smell of scythed grass, dirt, and farm. I am home! I opened a small gate and entered to the courtyard. A dog started barking. A small elderly bended woman, stumbling almost running, was hurrying toward me. My mother was never tall, but now, being bended, she looks much smaller and defenseless. She broke her back while she was taking care of my father when he has been paralyzed for ten years. Since he passed away, the mother has worn black or dark cloth. At this time she was dressed in a long black skirt and a blue navy blouse. A black scarf covered her head. Every time when I see her in this condition, my heart is clenching to pain. It is hard to accept, but time is inexorable. She looked at me, and her visage was rad... ... middle of paper ... ...d the hip injure in my birth, but in those years the treatment for this kind of traumas was not practicing. Mother could not accept a verdict to me to be an invalid. She was searching, and finally she found a doctor who was expert in this problem. My mother saved my future. It was equal offering me a second life, an opportunity to have active and full of value existence. I can claim that she gave me two lives, and I am enormously grateful to my mother for that and everything she has done for me. Whole my life, she has given me love, comprehension, support, and help. Her prayer has always protected me. Today looking at her face, which is furrowed by deep wrinkles, it is difficult to recognize this strong and courageous woman from my childhood; only different color eyes and smile can bring to mind her. Now I am praying for my mother, asking the Lord to save her!
Never having enjoyed, to any considerable extent, her soothing presence, her tender and watchful care, I received the tidings of [my mother’s] death with much the same emotions I should have probably felt at the death of a stranger.
The development of Mother's symptoms of mental disturbance went from bad to worse. I used to ask a helper to come and take care of her while she was having her meals. One evening, a helper came to me, saying, "Aiko-sama is calling you." When I went upstairs to see her, she asked me, "Are you the person who is always looking after me?
Plot: Woman gets call at work from her father, telling her that her mother is dead. Father never got used to living alone and went into retirement home. Mother is described as very religious, Anglican, who had been saved at the age of 14. Father was also religious and had waited for the mother since he first met her. They did not have sex until marriage and the father was mildly dissapointed that the mother did not have money. Description of the house follows, very high ceilings, old mansion it seems, with chimney stains, it has been let go. Jumps in time to narrators ex-husband making fun of narrator fantasizing about stains. Next paragraph is the father in a retirement home, always referring to things: ‘The lord never intended.’, shows how old people have disdain for new things, the next generation appears to be more and more sacreligious. Shows streak of meanness when ‘spits’ out a reference to constant praying, narrator claims he does not know who he is talking to, but appears to be the very pious mother. Following paragraph jumps back in time to when narrator was a child, she asks her mother constant questions about her white hair and what color it was, mother says she was glad when it wasn’t brown like her fathers anymore, shows high distaste towards her father, the narrators grandfather.
Since I did not know anyone else was my mother. According to my sister, we lived in our house alone, without any guardian guiding, or caring for my siblings and I. We ate our meals at my Aunt Gloria’s since we did not have any food at our own house. Moreover, It was a norm in El Salvador, the male to abuse their wives and children. Our cousins were our bullies; they saw their own mother abused by their alcoholic father. I asked my sister Yenis recently, “Why our cousins bullied us?” She said, “When you did not finish your meal, they would force you to finish your meal by smacking you.” When I was slightly older, I remembered I was standing on a ledge my grandfather build to prevent landslides. When I was standing on the ledge, I was thinking about how tall the ledge was, I looked to my right at my cousin when he pushed me, forcing me to fall down to the bottom of the ledge. I remember going in and out of consciousness. My grandfather picked me up from the ground and brought me inside my grandmother’s house. During the time, my grandmother clamored at my cousin, Yessica, to get warm water and rags. I remember feeling the warmth of the blood dripping down the back of my head. My grandparents did not take me to the hospital with the limitations they possessed. As a neglected parentless child I became withdrawn and
Tears flooded my face as I let her hand go. I love my mother dearly, but without father I had to be the head of the house. The one to take charge in times like these. She was in not in a good place of mind to be rational. Why had father forsaken us like this, why couldn't we just go home and be with him. The thoughts swirled around my head but the next thing I knew was mother laying on the ground in pain. Her face crinkled and puffy as she clenched her stomach in the delicate hands.
I can hear the hum of taxi cabs whizzing past me as I stand on the corner of the busy downtown street. New York City! I still can't believe that I'm here or that I'm staying here. Aunt Allison was so sweet to let me live in her place whilst she travels around south America. I step out onto the road when the traffic light changed from green to red.
Around midnight on the fourth day, the boy and his family members awakened again. This time they went with the family of the house's owner to a bus station where they took the bus going northward. The boy was very happy because he was free at last to play as a normal child again. On the way, everybody was fascinated and hypnotized by the scenery along the road, especially the kids because it was the first time they had left the cosmopolitan city for the countryside.
Her family life is depicted with contradictions of order and chaos, love and animosity, conventionality and avant-garde. Although the underlying story of her father’s dark secret was troubling, it lends itself to a better understanding of the family dynamics and what was normal for her family. The author doesn’t seem to suggest that her father’s behavior was acceptable or even tolerable. However, the ending of this excerpt leaves the reader with an undeniable sense that the author felt a connection to her father even if it wasn’t one that was desirable. This is best understood with her reaction to his suicide when she states, “But his absence resonated retroactively, echoing back through all the time I knew him. Maybe it was the converse of the way amputees feel pain in a missing limb.” (pg. 399)
During the last moments of my mother’s life she was surrounded by loved ones, as she slowly slipped away into the morning with grace and peace.
I knew it was my Ma. Her hands were always warm, no matter how cold it got. I shifted to the side and she sat next to me. I could tell she hadn’t been sleeping well. Her dark blue eyes accentuated the gray circles around them, but she still maintained that soothing smile that had lulled me to sleep for years. Even after seventeen years of me existing on this earth, my mother still took care of me tirelessly. She did the same with my other siblings, which was no easy task. The thought of my siblings drove the smile away from my face and I looked down at my dangling legs. We had started off with six people; Ma, Pa, my two little brothers, and me. However, my little brothers died of cholera two months after we left home. I could still remember how much agony they endured before they died. I shut my eyes hard as I can as if that would help me erase the horrible images I saw inside my head. Ma rubbed my arm comfortingly, grounding
We all remember these grey gloomy days filled with a feeling of despair that saddens the heart from top to bottom. Even though, there may be joy in one’s heart, the atmosphere turns the soul cold and inert. Autumn is the nest of this particular type of days despite its hidden beauty. The sun seems foreign, and the nights are darker than usual enveloped by a thrill that generates chills to travel through the spine leaving you with a feeling of insecurity. Nevertheless, the thinnest of light will always shine through the deepest darkness; in fact, darkness amplifies the beauty and intensity of a sparkle. There I found myself trapped within the four walls of my house, all alone, surrounded by the viscosity of this type of day. I could hear some horrifying voices going through my mind led by unappealing suicidal thought. Boredom had me encaged, completely at its mercy. I needed to go far away, and escape from this morbid house which was wearing me down to the grave. Hope was purely what I was seeking in the middle of the city. Outside, the air was heavy. No beautifully rounded clouds, nor sunrays where available to be admired through the thick grey coat formed by the mist embedded in the streets. Though, I felt quite relieved to notice that I was not alone to feel that emptiness inside myself as I was trying to engage merchant who shown similar “symptoms” of my condition. The atmosphere definitely had a contagious effect spreading through the hearts of every pedestrian that day. Very quickly, what seemed to be comforting me at first, turned out to be deepening me in solitude. In the city park, walking ahead of me, I saw a little boy who had long hair attached with a black bandana.
Upon arrival into the jungle of vast buildings, the first thing noticed is the mobbed streets filled with taxi cabs and cars going to and fro in numerous directions, with the scent of exhaust surfing through the air. As you progress deeper into the inner city and exit your vehicle, the aroma of the many restaurants passes through your nostrils and gives you a craving for a ?NY Hot Dog? sold by the street venders on the corner calling out your name. As you continue your journey you are passed by the ongoing flow of pedestrians talking on their cell phones and drinking a Starbucks while enjoying the city. The constant commotion of conversing voices rage up and down the streets as someone calls for a fast taxi. A mixed sound of various music styles all band together to form one wild tune.
The car was hot and stuffy when I slipped back into the driver's seat. I found the most depressing music I owned and drove out of Glenwood as the sun started to set. Two more hours until I was home, two more hours of thinking what a terrible day I had gone through, and two more hours of cussing myself for being so naïve. The drive was a long one.
As a young, rambunctious boy, I continuously got injured. Growing up in separate households was difficult. Depending on which parent I was with at the time, determined the affection I was shown. Any time I got injured my mother would always make sure I was well taken care of. Whether it be as simple as a cut, or as serious as a broken bone. My mom consistently made sure I took proper steps to fixing up my bumps and bruises.
My mother afraid of I was tired, she made me fast food and take an orange juice for me drink. Perhaps when people did not know the maternal typeface has shown enough full, shimmering like moonlight. Now on all communication media, art, mother image even more honored but it was never enough to speak of sacrifice and love of my mother for me. Also had repeatedly faulted, after her mother’s stern look, I still get a part on by the tips rustic. Each time, seems to me more mature and made a promise to never mistake again. Now, when I grows up, I will promise to mother to live well to able to reciprocate the thanks she taught me.