My life first started in Quincy, Massachusetts where the sea smelt amazing to those who lived there and horrific to those who didn’t. Living by the water was supposed to give me an appreciation for the way it smelt, but it never did. But, as my Dad drives by the ocean he rolls down his windows and sniffs in the “amazing” smell of those dirty socks. However, I roll up the windows and don’t breath until I drive into the safety zone. This lack of love for this awful smell is the reason I don’t believe Quincy is my home. I should love my home in all aspects but Quincy, that smell is something I can’t love.
Quincy being the southern suburb of Boston leaves the roads always packed bumper to bumper, each car making sure there is no room for the next car to breath. Not only are the noises of the cars annoying with their roaring engines, but the noises that come from those people in the cars are the worst. The twenty four year old man abusively honking his horn at the grandma who’s driving fine, but since she’s an old lady he thinks she’s driving too slow for him and honks the horn anyway. Or the drivers who just yells at the other drivers in front of them because they are pissed off, even though the drivers in front of them can’t fix the situation because everybody’s stuck in traffic. These voices of those angry people are imprinted into my mind shouting “get outta my way” and “move your damm cah”. This lack of love for these ear aching noises is the reason I don’t believe Quincy is my home. I should love my home in all aspects but Quincy, that noise is something I can’t love.
My life continued when I moved to Pomfret, Connecticut where the fields smelt of wonderful manure to those who lived there and disgusting to those who didn’t. Living by farmers fields who used cow manure as fertilization for their new crops was supposed to give you an appreciation for the way it smelt, and it sure had because I never wanted to stop smelling it. Something about driving down the dirt roads, passing the fields, and rolling down your windows to smell that magnificent smell, cow manure, it was the best. The amount of love I have for this smell that most would describe as foul is the reason I believe Pomfret is my home. I should love my home in all aspects and Pomfret, that smell is something I love.
Pomfret being in the top right corner of Connecticut, an hour away from the nearest city left the roads empty. The ability to just cruise down the streets not losing sight of the horizon line because of the flat landscape allowed me to breath. The sounds of the birds, crisp whip of the wind, and the rustling of the leaves on the trees filled my ears. No horns excessively honked, or voices screaming over the sounds of traffic. The amount of love I have for these noises is the reason I believe Pomfret is my home. I should love my home in all aspects and Pomfret, those noises are something I love. Pomfret is my perfect peace, Pomfret is my everything, Pomfret will always be my home.
The main character in Stephen Crane’s novel, Maggie: Girl of the Streets, is a young girl stuck between her aspirations and reality. This novel follows the girl, Maggie, through her downfall to rock bottom as it is chronicled through the descriptions of her environment. “The girl, Maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle” (Crane 18) is how the young girl is described at the beginning of the novella. She is a beautiful, young girl who was seemingly still ‘blossoming’ in the tough environment of a tenement housing neighborhood in the late eighteen hundreds. Little did she know her seemingly stagnant world was going to change as soon as the handsome, “charming” and bar fighting young man, Pete, walked into her home. Pete showed Maggie to the world she had always been curious about, the lavish life of someone with money. Pete brought her to dance halls that were filled to the brim with Crane’s descriptions of a new and exciting experience. Yet at the end of the novella as the glamour and wonder of the dance hall fades away through Crane’s writing so do Maggie’s aspirations and her individuality. Through Crane’s deterioration of detail for the lustrious dance halls and for Maggie herself, one can follow her personal downfall and her relationship with Pete.
As stated above, in the height of the story Maggie is a young girl in love with a young man. She is entranced by the life he lives and is rapt by extravigant dance hall he continues to bring her too. Though Pete is seemingly unimpressed by the crowded event, Maggie is caught up in all the “luxury”. “An orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed on an elevated stage near the center of a green-hued hall played a popular waltz” (Crane 24). The language of the text implores the wonder and newness of the environment. Even readers feel a sense of attraction to the hustle and bustle of the night life.
As soon as the relationship becomes serious between Maggie and Pete, the magic seems to disappear from their fairytale story. Pete is more entranced with other girls and treats Maggie more and more casually as the days go by. Given that Maggie has become so dependent on Pete to give her a slim escape from her tenement life, this change in their relationship pulls at her. Maggie’s very fragile jenga block tower of self esteem and personal being is wobbling as Pete’s ignorant actions pull piece after piece away. While being with Pete, Maggie subconsciously gave him her own independence, as she needs him to access the forbidden fruit of the wealthy life. Along with her independence she gives away her confidence and individuality, because she becomes so heavily reliant on the pinions of the wealthy including Pete. In the writing, readers can follow the diming relationship through the increasingly dulling scene of the dance hall. The more Maggie visits the vibrant dance hall the less appealing it becomes. “A submissive orchestra dictated by a spectacled man with frowsy hair and a dress suit” the descriptions of the once aweing performances simply seem tedious now.
The final image Crane gives us of the dance hall is one of a crowded, smoke filled, and grimy room. The chapter the scene is in starts out by describing the hall as ‘hilarious’ and gives readers descriptions in more of a factual tone. “Soiled waiters ran to and fro, swooping down like hawks on the unwary in the throng, clattering along” (Crane 49). The impersonal way Crane describes the hall makes the readers feel distant and unattracted to the once glamourous dance hall. The facade from the beginning of the story of a high class dance hall filled with opulence seemingly melted away to reveal a simple room filled with subpar music and sluggish rich. While following the metamorphosis of the dance hall the end result for Maggie is far from a beautiful butterfly. It’s really quite the opposite.
The final image Crane paints of Maggie is quite detached and gives no real personal descriptions of her. “A girl of the painted cohorts of the city went along the street” (Crane 61) is the simple image the readers are given. Crane shows that Maggie is no longer that girl who was able to bloom in a mud puddle, the one who had the hopes and aspirations of a better life. All that is left is a simple girl running through the streets searching for the missing parts of her jenga tower. When Maggie and Pete’s relationship crumbled so did Maggie’s personal identity, literally in the text and within her own character.
Through Cranes deliberate and carefully thought out language, readers are able to align the deterioration of Maggie with the deterioration of the dance hall. Both once glimmering and lustrous images, by the end of the book had faded into despair that lacked the individual and bright details. Maggie’s downfall is attributed to her toxic relationship with Pete that sucked her independence and sense of self worth from her. The dance hall then being one of the things closely assimilated with Pete, when the relationship with Pete faded so did the love for and beautiful image of the dancehall.
As a teenage girl I carry a lot of things around with me. I carry the weight of my school bag filled to the brim with my books. I carry the fabric of my carefully picked out outfit. I carry the thin layer of mascara on my eyelashes, just enough to make my eyes look more defined. I carry a ball of stress wound up tight from my packed weekly schedule. I carry bags under my eyes from getting used to the early mornings of a school sleep schedule again. I carry a smile on my face as I see my friends encircled around me at the lunch table. But if you stripped all of those things away I would still be carrying something. I would still be holding the secret little game of my age.
I am a junior in highschool, looking at colleges, preparing for a life out on my own and hitting major milestones, yet I am only sixteen years old, seemingly too young to be at this stage in my life. However, there is a simple explanation to this: when I was in second grade I skipped into the third about halfway through the year.
Whenever I introduce myself at the beginning of the school year, I refrain from saying my age and simply tell people where I am from and what I like to do. I play a little game with myself and see how long I can make it into the year until people figure out my real age. Then when it comes time to reveal my big secret I do a sort of social test to see how people react. When people find out I have skipped a grade and how old I am, it’s usually followed by one main response and a few varied comments:
The topic of age will come up eventually and someone politely asks…
“How old are you?”And they expect me to a say a number close to theirs, like seventeen or eighteen.
As I respond with, “Sixteen” my cheeks blush before I even hear their response. I think in my head, “what is it gonna be this time, shocked or unphased?”
“Wow, oh my goodness you are so young!” is the typical response with a tone of surprise. This is followed by multiple questions trying to determine how I am so young, playing detective.
I typically brush it off by laughing or just cutting right to the chase and explaining how I skipped a grade. I feel an instant shift in how people treat me from when they hear the number leave my mouth. Though sometimes I find good people who don’t let the number change how they treat me.
Fast forward a few years from my little third grader self. I have felt the weight of my age more and more as I near adulthood and the years get piled on. When I was younger I always learned to see the brighter side: I was in a more challenging curriculum, I would get to start college at an earlier age, and I was in a more mature atmosphere. But as milestones arrive for my peers, my age seems to hinder me a bit more than it used to. As people are out driving around, I’m waiting at home for my ride. More people tend to take in my age now as a contender in my self worth, as if age determines what type of person I am. I have learned to roll with people’s judgement on my value being based on a simple number. I know that my age doesn’t determine how mature I am; I know that it doesn’t determine my intelligence, and it’s not something I should fear. This has then transferred over to how I treat others: I do not judge simply on how old they are. I have come to learn that age is just a number and a weight I carry but should not care about.
Judging people is not something I should be proud of but nevertheless, every time I am in a situation with new people or people unlike me, I can’t help it but judge them. Looking back, I judge people and make my opinions about them, and no matter what, those opinions hold their ground strong and most likely never change. There were times when I judged people for the things they cannot control: their looks, their voices, and maybe their gender. This makes me a terrible person but just few of many times. Most of the time, the judgments I make are true and helps me get away from toxic people.
The way people show and represent themselves plays a major role of my judgment issue. Maybe it’s because I am unlike them and I dress to express and not to impress. This sometimes makes me wonder if I could be like them and try harder to get attention, but I stop and be proud of who I am. Judging and forming opinions were not always in my favor. It has put me in some embarrassing situations where I question myself, but no matter how much I try to stop it, it never goes away.
Coming so far away from home was a big hurdle to cross when it came to cultural differences. I didn’t know how to present myself. I kept to myself for most of the time and observed people. While observing, I also knew who was who, at least I thought I knew. I judged them for who they are knowing that they cannot change some aspects; for eg their gender. Because back in India, there were just two genders, and coming to the US, I saw many other gender groups. It took me some time but eventually I understood and felt guilty about my actions. Today, those people are few of my closest friends at Hebron.
I know it’s a bad sin, but sometimes I feel proud. I feel like I have this free power of making an opinion and sharing it. The only difference with this is that some of these opinions are irrelevant and are hard to change when once made. This stops me from going outside of my comfort zone and meeting new people. Growing older I realised how much I am missing by judging others and hope to change it one day.
There was nothing to worry about. In my ears was the noise cancelling sound of good music. Around me, thoughts floated out and flitted away into the night air through the open windows. On my warm, sun kissed skin the twilight breathe swirled around me and pushed on my freckled cheeks. In my eyes was the image of peeking shy stars, a fading ombre of colors and a slivered, silver moon.
Every curve and weave made my stomach jump and fall. We cruised through the night to the beat of the music along the parallel lemon lines.
At least once or twice the frame of the car faded away and left us flying through the hazy tones of the setting sun. In the sky clouds hung like buffers between the twilight dark and vibrant neons. In my soul I felt the careless freedom of being young and wild.
By the time all the stars peeked out, I am filled to the brim with adventure. It has gone from day time obligations to whirring through the quite towns, concentrating on the pulse of the music. My only thoughts are what plays next and which star looks the farthest off.
The neighborhoods always look more peaceful covered in a blanket of dusk. The people seem happier in the warm sunnier environment. But the roads are always longer and the songs last longer in the daytime.
Suddenly the car is off and the air is silent. The rush has faded away like the fleeting sunset earlier. The night has ended.
Pearl is the most negative, condescending, and demanding part of Hester’s life, yet she is the one thing keeping her alive. In The Scarlet Letter Nathaniel Hawthorne uses Hester Prynne’s daughter Pearl as a symbol of peace and a natural way of life during the corrupt society of the Puritans. Pearl will hurt her mother with no remorse, telling her the ugly and hard to hear truth. The truth that no one else would tell her. The weaknesses
that Hester tries to hide, Pearl will be the first to point out. The pain of one’s biggest fears and darkest parts made public is immense, and having the pain caused by the one person you love most can be tragic. Pearl is Hester’s label, she is what she is known for; this label of a sin of a disgrace becomes Hester. This purpose Hester now has because of Pearl gives her a name, a meaning. Pearl gives Hester a responsibility as a parent, giving her another life to care for other than her own. This keeps Hester from straying to a sinful path, Pearl being a sin keeps her mother moral.
Pearl’s truthfulness is both a blessing and a curse. She can cause Hester an immense pain that nobody else can, yet Pearl is the only one who will give Hester that unfortunate reality. Honesty is the best quality a human can have, those who are always honest are typically disliked. That is an understandable concept; nobody likes to hear the truth when it is painful. As humans, emotions are a huge and controlling factor in life. Pushing down and avoiding emotions only works for so long. Pearl makes Hester feel the pain of honesty, something that is very difficult to hear and have to be told regularly.
The reality that Pearl brings to Hester’s attention is difficult but necessary. Such as the fact Dimmesdale will never publicly be with either of them. This is a harsh topic that Hester does not want to believe, she knows it herself but does not want to face the truth or have to hear it from somebody else. The truth is harsh but accurate and Hester needed to hear it “Pearl either saw and responded to her mother’s feelings, or herself felt the remoteness and intangibility that had fallen around the minister… ‘What would the minister have said, mother? Would he have clapped his hand over his heart, and scowled on and bid me begone?’”(Hawthorne 219-220). This truth is immensely painful to Hester, the reality of Dimmesdale and his unwillingness to come forward and confess his sin to be with Pearl and Hester as a family. Pearl needed to tell her mother the truth because nobody else was going to, there is no other soul to tell her and Hester needed to hear the harsh reality of the situation that Dimmesdale with never lose-face in such a way to publically be with Hester, as well as Pearl.
The strength Pearl’s honesty gives Hester is underlying; telling Hester the truth and pointing out the weaknesses Hester attempts to hide makes her a stronger and more independent individual. Pearl forces Hester to face the things she fears and is not letting her hide behind a mask. Pearl especially draws attention to the A, Hester’s biggest weakness. A particular time Pearl does this is when she and Hester were at the governor’s mansion and Hester sees her reflection in a suit of armor. Pearl points out how obvious her A is “And she saw that, owing to the peculiar effect of this convex mirror, the scarlet letter was represented in exaggerated and gigantic proportions, so as to be greatly the most prominent feature of her appearance.”(Hawthorne 91). Another example of this is Pearl and Hester’s reflections in the brook. Here Pearl is seen as a symbol of adultery and the letter itself “And beneath, in the mirror of the brook, there was the flower-girdled and sunny image of little Pearl, pointing her small forefinger too.”(Hawthorne 193). At this moment Pearl is perceived as mean and devil-like, but Pearl’s fascination with the letter and her subconscious awareness of its meaning and connection to her is crucial in her relationship with her mother. Pearl knows the letter has a connection to herself. When she draws her attention to it and makes her mother acknowledge the letter and its meaning, Pearl is helping Hester face the meaning and the truth of the A and this helps her accept the A, which can be symbolic for Pearl as part of her and a part of her being. That is a large role in Pearl’s character showing and bringing these to her mother’s attention and bettering her as a person. Pearl’s natural connection to the forest and the nature around her signifies her significance and pure ability, to be honest, and speak the truth and say the things that others do not dare to. Pearl is a symbol of nature and beauty in the forest, which she has such a strong connection with nature and the forest which the Puritans are scared of, therefore see reason to fear both Hester and Pearl. The connection Pearl has with nature is seen in this scene, it truly amplifies Pearl’s beauty and purity “see with what natural skill she has made those simple flowers adore her! Had she gathered pearls, and diamonds and rubies that could not have become her better.” (Hawthorne 159). Pearl’s openness with nature and truth defines her connection with her mother and effect on her.
Pearl’s effect on her mother is very deep and complex. Hester’s source of life comes from Pearl. From the very beginning, Pearl is the reason Hester continues to live when Hester’s sin was considered punishable by death, Pearl was the reason her punishment was lightened. Pearl is seen as a source of evil in the town, a devil child. To the Puritans view, any person who does not follow nor go by their strict beliefs, they are then portrayed as evil. Pearl who has a deep connection with nature and the forest, which is what the townspeople fear, is then considered evil. Pearl is natural, she does not follow the ideas of the Puritans with harsh punishments and strict rules, she was conceived in sin. She is different. Pearls difference is keeping Hester alive. This natural, beautiful, child that speaks the truth and does not fear the forest if holding Hester’s drowning head above the water. She saved her.
Honesty, strength, life, those are what Pearl provides to Hester. Pearl’s honesty keeps Hester true and in reality, her strength keeps Hester progressing and growing as a woman, and her life, her natural and beautiful way of life gives her mother a new sense of life. Pearl is natural she is free and she is the best thing for Hester to have in her life.
Her mind was clear and calm, rolling slowly out of bed on a quiet February morning. The dream of drowning remained in her mind, but she was accustomed to its presence there. With eyes still glazy and only slightly parted, she traced the wall for a light and flicked it on. The bright fluorescent light burned her eyes. When the shock faded, she stood before the mirror, a person she thought she knew stared back at her. She moved about her morning, a slow winding river shifted in her mind from black to light shades of grey and blue, the morning moved on and her with it.
Faces passed, a mixture of fake and real smiles were exchanged. As hard as she tried, her smile, and her positivity, never seemed real to herself. Although she could never convince herself others believed her. They bought her smile, her jokes, and the same laugh that was genuine only weeks before. This was the easy part, she said to herself, the same routine for the past two years, this is easy. The same words circled through her head “ Just smile, don’t let people see this side of you. You need to be strong. Other people need you to be strong for them.”
The day continues. Going through the motions gets easier, yet her feelings become more superficial. Things seem to move on without her, she stands still as the world moves a million miles an hour as she watches it go by.
As the days grew warmer, her skin, heart, and mind grew colder. Anything that required human emotion no longer came naturally to her. This once happy-go-lucky positive ball of energy was gone. No matter how deep or long she searched she couldn’t find that version of herself. The harder she tried to keep her head above the water, the weaker her arms and legs became. The water began to pull her under and the darkness consumed her mind.
As this dark cold water filled her mind, it engulfed her body. Those qualities that once made her confident she became so critical of. The smile she presented to the world became more and more convincing. It was almost as if she became an expert in lying to everyone around her.
The more time went by, the less she tried to cheer herself back up. She moved through life with little emotion and no effort. The cold and dark water filled her completely as if she was pushing against a current so strong she couldn’t move. She struggled so immensely to move forward, so she stopped trying and let the water drag her under.
.
And she knew then she had lost the battle with the water.
I have this recurring memory: every first Friday of the summer I am sitting on a baby boat, swinging up and down like a parabola, feeling the warmth of the sun. The wind blowing through me, giving my inner organs new life. The ride starts off slowly but as I go down, I can feel something ticklish, slowly but constantly providing me with weird but good chills. I turn left to see my nine years old sister showing off her half crooked teeth and to my right a girl around seven and somewhat my age scared and waiting for the ride to end. Even at the fastest pace, I manage to see my mom, who is trying to look happy and excited but indeed is scared and hoping that the ride does not unbuckle from the support wheel. I wave at every stranger on their way. The overwhelming experience of sitting on the ride brings out an uncanny side of me. I start to create stupid noises, which are so loud that my sister has to hit me and make me stop. But I don’t. I keep tapping my foot and moving side to side even though the passengers were strictly banned to do so. I can feel my heartbeat racing because of the pleasure of joy and excitement the ride gives me. Those five minutes flew by so quickly that when the motion of the boats comes to a stop, I find myself sad and disappointed, for I know I cannot afford another one.
Before the next summer ride, I make myself a promise to save my money so I could at least get two rides. But, making promises are easier than completing them. Another year goes by and my sister and I are already ready to make our way to the boat. With the baby boat in my sight, I run as fast as I can so I could get the best spot. While I make it to the seat, I look behind to see that the owner is talking to my mom about something. I yell at my sister to come take the spot next to me, but she doesn’t. Being nine years old, I cared for nothing but the ride and was okay with my sister not being on it with me at that moment. I look around and saw a boy next to me. His face was pale and I could sense the fear of heights in him. I try not to laugh but a small giggle comes out of me. I looked outside and weird, happy, and loud noises made they way out of me. I waved at strangers and showed my wide smile. While some smiled, most of them were really annoyed. As the motion of the ride slowed and the ride came to an end, I walked behind the boy towards the exit and the next thing I know is that he has thrown all over the exit of the boat. I looked disgusted but happy for if he threw up while the ride was on, then I would have not been able to complete my ride. I ran as fast as I can to my mom and said,
“Mom, it was so much fun. Did you see me? Did you look how high it went? Did you see the boy throw up? I can’t wait for the next year. I loved it”.
While I was sharing my excitement and joy, the owner was grunting, for he had a lot of cleaning to do then.
Another year comes to an end and this time my dad took me to the ride. Ten minutes before the time of departure, I yelled at him and said,
“Come on dad, you’re gonna make me late. If I miss it, you’ll have to give me two rides”.
I could see how he excited he was to take me as we never had the chance to spend summer together until them. Moment we parked our car, I rushed outside and I went running to get on the ride when the owner stopped and asked,
“How old are you, dear?”
I smiled widely and said,
“I am ten”
He looked displeased and told us that we cannot go on the ride. At the moment, I didn’t know what to say. I looked at him and then to my father, back and forth, hoping that someone would laugh and say that it was a joke. I stared for a while and realized it wasn’t. I felt as if a dagger was just stabbed at me from the back. The pain was undeniable. For most of my childhood was connected with the boat. As the ride starts, I sense tears dropping down my eyes as I wasn’t on it and maybe will never be again. I heard people laughing. I heard some screams but even in those noises, I missed the sound of those weird voices that I used to make. I hugged my dad asking him to allow me just for once, but he said I was too big for that. I could feel my childhood vanishing right in front of my eyes. I could see people enjoying the ride but not me. I could feel my heart broken into millions of pieces. I wanted to scream, shout, and cry. Tell them that I am not big enough. Tell them that I must ride, maybe just one last time. Tell them that I miss it. And tell them that my summer was not over.
There was sickness all over me. In the blooming morning as the one we had today, I felt lost. From breakfast to all of my classes, I was helpless. In my own body I did not feel like me. And as everyone around me gave me a pity look, I was bounded by the germs that killed me more and more, causing me to become a dead corpse.
Everytime I took a tissue to wipe my nose, my body gave up even more. There was no hope for me to walk back and forth to my classes, and one could even say that I indeed was dead. If only there was someone to help me walk, I would’ve lived a bit longer.
At least I made my death bed by waking up myself because that was when I knew that it was not a good idea. In the shower I could feel my bones cracking so was my head. Along the walk from Halford to the Dinning hall, I gave up thrice. In that five minutes long walk, I ran, jumped, and went as fast as I could. The journey was remembered but not forgotten.
By ten o’clock I gave up on my health, I felt as if I would never find myself in one piece if I have continued my school day. But remembering that I have gone through a lot more than this, I kept moving and as I did so I saw myself living and time went by and so did my sickness. During my AP US History class I reminded myself that time certainly goes by faster if you sleep, so I started sleeping the class, and it was not an easy task. Mr. ftorek Looked at me with those similar pity eyes and asked me if I was okay and that innocent gesture broke me into pieces as I knew I was not okay.
The day were longer as the lunch period made me lurch away from the strength, and now the crowd is filling the dining hall, people were gossiping, and the day was not moving faster. Sickness is difficult minute by minute, spilled with pitiness, and empathy. The crowds kept increasing, moving slowly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; the pills already start to kick in, confidently making the most painful day of my life less painful. I saw the end coming near, but the day was still the longest.
Suddenly in the puddle of pain, I could see hope, love, care, and faith: The Health Center. A momentary hush; My legs started to walk to the health center, drifting away from the crowd, laugh, and gossips. There I was on my bed away from class away from sickness.
This is the front cover of the novel, The Great Gatsby. This Novel replicates the American Dream through Gatsby and his experiences.
I was sitting by the window, the sun rays peeking through sheer dotted fabric as they swayed, cascading, creating a lulling calm. The smell of a hot early summer pushed through the screen. I was peaceful, happy and worry free, cuddled in the corner of my room as the minutes passed by. The sound of pebbles underneath the rubber of a tire stirred outside as they arrived home. Springing from my cozy little nook, I bounded down the stairs. Each creaking as my foot pressed on them with excitement. The door swung open letting a wall of thick heat into the cool dry house. Someone unexpected had arrived, someone near and dear to the heart, my godmother. It felt like a surprise and I was overjoyed to have them home. Mom brought in food and stories and smiles charging the tone of the room with excitement. Chatting and catching up sitting around the kitchen, happy to finally not be alone in the house, put a wide smile across my face. The smell of the sandwiches weaving its way out of the bag and the feeling of family filled the kitchen.
“I need to talk to you about something”
Those mere eight words never mean anything good and always carry a bad shadow. That moment my gut sank and I nervously awaited the glooming speech. I had already heard those words before in my life and each time it was bad news that followed. I sat there fidgeting with my fingers, a tick I do when I get nervous or embarrassed. My appetite disappeared, the happy feelings had vanished. I heard my mom’s word, and sat there as piece by piece I dissected the situation.
“They caught it early enough honey.”
But what if it develops into something ten times worse.
“There are so many people around us who are ready to be there for us.”
I don’t think I could actually live without her.
“We are going to try our best to keep a normal routine.”
This is actually happening, my mother is one of the people affected, my family is going through this .
“They are going to operate and try to take most of it out, then we will go on from there.”
What if I lose my mom, I don’t think I could actually make it through that.
The end result of the jumble of words I heard was “ I have cancer”. I sat there for a moment awestruck at the thought that such a far off terrible thing was actually happening to me and my family right now. I had always heard of people having it and I knew people who were affected by it but never did I ever think that this stinging word would become such a prominent piece of my life. Throughout my fifteen years of life I had been through trying moments and throughout all of it my mother was my rock. I held on tight to her throughout the worst of the storms. But now of all things that the storm could have struck, it was my rock, my mom. I was going to have to be the rock through this storm and it made me scared to death. I was going to have to be the one needed for comfort. I would be the one my mom needed instead of me needing her, it was terrifying to me. This wasn’t just a stranger I heard diagnosed with this terrible disease, this was one of my people. Cancer. Such a heavy word, weighted with pounds of emotions. The thought had never run through my mind that it would become a word I used in my daily vocabulary.
As tears poured down my face, the summer was over before it had even begun.
