Personal Narrative-The Buried Burden

The Buried Burden The iron taste of blood, my tired feet could always beat the pavement greater than the cold reality of the world on my conscience. My thin athletic body had become immune to a number of miles some luxury cars would not see. My long dark hair pushed back but never brushed, slowly became streaky with sweat. I had a cold demeanor, but it was only to hide something I did not understand. This would be my last run in this wretched city. It was cold; bone chilling cold, yet I still stood outside. My feet were glued to the ground and not even God could carry my will up those steps. However, I began to climb them. I hesitated at the door but continued to push. The room was small and the wood benches beaten. Although, the room was warm and inviting, I felt cold and unwelcomed. My footsteps bounced off the stained glass windows and echoed throughout the organ pipes. The old priest …show more content…
There were few there. Those in attendance felt the greatest pain. I had not stepped foot in a church since my mother, but I had to close this chapter. I was not an evil person; I was just madly confused. We are all products of our history and future. If I had not experienced what I have or thought about my life a certain way, I would not have caused the pain I created. I was just a drop in Anna’s pail of sorrows but I was that drop too many, just like the alcohol in my father’s veins. The small flap of my problematic wings caused a tsunami of grief for her family. Easily, I could have showed compassion and possibly saved her and maybe even myself, but I was scared. I wanted to blank out and run away, but I needed to face the cold reality. I have been running all my life but that day I was going to sit. I did sit. I sat in silence and guilt, clenching at the green stem between my fingers. At the end of the service, when her family left, I stepped forward and paid my long overdue respects. Before my final goodbye, I left a single yellow rose on her