Tears

easy thing to take in. As you go through the stages of mourning, it seems to get easier to accept it. I have never gone through the stages of mourning. Shedding tears was only a temporary thing that lasted less than a minute. That is because I learned to view death as a beautiful thing at an early age. I thought I would no longer shed any tears for death like I had before. That was until I lost my abuelita yesterday morning. I woke up like every other day. My to-do list called for the norm:…

Mixed Emotions The Story of an Hour is a short story written by Kate Chopin that illustrates the unusual, negative, and secretive side of a marriage that is unknown to the rest of the characters in the narrative. Chopin uses many different kinds of literary devices in this short story in order to portray the confinement, freedom, and hope that death brings about for Mrs. Louise Mallard, the main character. The story focuses on the way Mrs. Mallard handles and copes with the breaking news of her…

This Summer, the biggest change happened to me. My mom got a new job halfway across the country. I used to be living in West Point, New York on Benedict Road, which is known as “Sesame Street” because every house has at least one kid, where my dad worked at the military academy, but ever since he got sick we were everywhere. Most days in New York were exceptional! The sun gleamed for 12 hours of the long complicated working days down on the city below. The towering trees reached up to the…

Góða Nótt Elskan: Goodnight, Darling The particularity of someone who matters enough to grieve over is worth acknowledging. “The integrity with which we remember [them]…” contributes to self-knowledge and a more comprehensively shaped worldview, through the utilization of meaning derived within this acknowledgement (Campbell, Koggel,& Jacobsen, 2014, p.45). In fact, it is because of meaning that one may devoid death of its assumed unfamiliar, yet strikingly shameful, damage. Grief is one of…

Little Raye of Sunshine Raye was not what I expected. She had long brown hair that was loose and wild and big brown eyes filled with hatred. Her pale, thin lips curved up and away from her nose. I think she was trying to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. Raye could not be more than eight years old yet she smelled like trouble. I cringed. This was going to be the worst babysitting job ever. Ray looked at me challengingly. I stared at the ground. Her gaze was terrifying. I have never…

I saw the deer in the cross hairs of my scope; I took one last deep breath of the crisp winter air as my dad pressured me to hurry up, and I squeezed the trigger. I had never heard anything sound so loud in my life. My heart was beating through my chest as I looked down to see blood and shattered glass everywhere. The doe I was aiming for still standing in front of me unharmed. I was shaking uncontrollably, and not from the cold, but from the sight of what I had done. The smell of black power…

After we left the emergency room we went home, leaving my mother and Amy behind to help my Papa Jack as they waited until late that night for a real hospital room to open up. Finally one opened up around 9 o’clock that night. The next day they spent the day at the hospital with Nani and Papa Jack, meeting with certain people that wanted to see her and getting ready to move her back home. Meanwhile, me and my sister were forced to return to school the next day. Acting as though everything is fine…

feelings pent up full of emotion, tears begin to well, and my throat developed a lump too big to swallow. Why he did this to her? My older sister and I tried…

ABC is easy as 123, are the beginning words to my mother’s favorite song. Coming home from school was like the same routine, every day I would arrive home listening to Motown music on the record player, food on the stove, and my mother nagging about our homework. Not much of a battle for her because conditions were good, great music, delicious food, and mama was overwhelmingly happy. My mother was born in the 70s so, Rhythm and Blues or Motown sound as described by Jean Ferris; the author of…

last thing I remembered was watching the paramedics take my mom away from my grip as I walled and thrashed with all of my remaining strength until an officer held me down. The second his foreign hands touched my body I clawed at his face. I felt the tears surface my checks. "Mom!" My lungs croaked with every word. My sorrowful eyes followed the speeding ambulance as it disappeared from my sight. The officer wrapped his arms around my fragile shoulders meanwhile my ears caught the other's…