Located in a forest, was a park my dad had taken me to for a space of around two years. In the summer it was lush and virescent, the full trees bringing shade and fabricating new mountains to scale. The winter was beautifully barren and had seemed to be as clear as crystalline ice, reflecting the beauty around every surface. All year the park was feigning beauty and then mocking the word in which it was described. It held everything that could possibly make a child happy, including the beaming, champagne colored ice cream truck. Even the champagne was pretending to be beautiful; the color peeled off in feathers of paint as if the truck was pluming for everyone’s entertainment. My father got me an ice cream every time we went, which more or …show more content…
Like a thirsty dog, I quickly lap up the driblets, making sure to not allow any of the candied perfection to go to waste. The drug, now being inside my body, made me happier than, possibly my flower garden, or even Disneyland. At the time, I thought the happiness was from my dad. I mean, it should be from my dad; a parental figure should make you happy, right? At least that is what I thought then, now I know; parental figures do not give you happiness, you make that for yourself. The reality of this however, does not stop the wants nor the memories from coming …show more content…
My father had gone to court, brawling the justice system for more time with me, because apparently first, third, and fifth weekends weren’t enough. My mom had fought regardless of the cost to keep me from the innocence-hunting beast like the valiant knight I knew her to be when I was small. She had almost won with the court taking the fifth weekend visitations away, however they had decided we could be a good family therefore sending both me and my father to reunification therapy. In other words, trying to rebuild the broken bond, but as Dr. Roberts (my therapist) said, “Reunification therapy only works if both parties are
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On behalf of my entire family, I want to thank all of you for your compassion and for being present here today. For those of you who don't know me, my name is Mauri-Lynne, and I'm Lionel's daughter. Dad was devoted to every one of you. We all hope that you'll share your memories of him with us, if not today then in the weeks and months to come.
Once upon a time, a 18 year old named Juan was going to work in his father’s vegetable market. Juan always goes to help out his father no matter what. Him and his dad moved to Jerusalem from a village in Jordan. His mother had passed away from a wound infection. His father didn’t have enough money for medicine, so that’s why she died. They moved so they wouldn’t struggle anymore, and so they can live a different life. Juan is a very helpful, nice, intelligent, and had a very prodigious heart . Everyone in Juan’s village liked him, but his bullies, John and Josh, just hated him. They always bullied Juan on a daily basis just because they were jealous of how Juan was loved by everyone. While Juan was helping out his dad, Juan and Josh went to his dad’s store and Josh started to say that he and Juan’s girlfriend Emily were in love and that Emily didn’t love Juan anymore. He was just ignoring them because he knew that it wasn’t true, so he continued on working.
Today, the most difficult day in my family’s life, we gather to say farewell to our son, brother, fiancé and friend. To those of you here and elsewhere who know Dylan you already are aware of the type of person he was and these words you will hear are already in your memory. To those who were not as fortunate, these words will give you a sense of the type of man he was and as an ideal for which we should strive. My son has been often described as a gentle soul. He was pure of heart and had great sensitivity for the world around him. He had a way with people that made them feel comfortable around him and infected others to gravitate toward him. Dylan exuded kindness and pulled generosity and altruism out from everyone he touched. He was everyone's best friend.
My brother, my sister and I had adopted a cat. We told our mom that we would take care of it, and feed it. Of course you know what happened. Our mom ended up taking care of it and feeding it. We told our mom the cat's name was Tiger. T i g e r. Now, if you’re Molly and you are originally from Trenton New Jersey, T i g e r is pronounced Tagger.
My mother was a complex, multi-faceted person. Many of you here today knew my mother personally, and many of you knew my mother indirectly through one of her family members. You may have known her as a coworker, a friend, or a support person. Of course, all of my mother’s family here today each knew a part of her, a “facet” of her--as a mother, a sister, an aunt, a grandmother, a cousin.
Eulogy for Father As you all know, there were certain things Loyd liked -- dogs, and poker games, football, and airplanes -- and there were certain things he didn’t like -- carrots, political speeches, telephone solicitations (especially those made by insurance men), and long-winded eulogies. I won’t do that because for every story that I could tell today about Loyd, his friends here today could tell fifty more. I am very secure in the knowledge that Loyd lived every day of his life to the fullest and I feel that Mother and Delia Ruth are secure in that knowledge as well. And we are very grateful to you all for being here today with us to honor his life.
“It’s nothing, really honey, it isn’t anything,” my mama, then said doing her best to avoid the question as she continued to lead me back to the top of the stairs. I however stubbornly fought her the whole way. “It’s just some leftover stuff that your grandmother was into that was apparently never cleaned up. I told you about how she was a herbalist and a naturalist, and into all kinds of weird ritualistic medicine.”
Now I don’t want to dive right in and tell you what happened right away, but first I want to give you a little background information. My parents divorced when I was ten years old and after that day my mother was never the same person again. I still love her with all of my heart but I desperately miss the mother she once was for me. I can still remember her and my father carrying me and my little brother up to bed and saying a prayer as they tucked us in for the night. That was so long ago and she is no longer that person.
Theresa Smith was born on December 3, 1925 in Materson, NJ. She died in Williamsville on March 2, 2005, at age 80. Theresa Smith was great grandmother of one, grandmother of five of us, mother of three, sibling of three sisters and two brothers, and wife to one great man, my grandfather, Ron Smith.