Her shoulders sagged as if carrying too much weight. Her solemn, deeply creased, face made it obvious that she had seen better days, though these days were buried deeply in the past. My eyes moved to woman’s face. Every deep wrinkle told a different story. Betsey explained she could no longer see very clearly, now relying solely on tactile memories. Shortly after, she asked politely if she could touch my hair. Her rough, callused hands glided gently against my cheeks, as she caressed my hair. The look in her eyes spoke more than words could in that moment. She broke eye contact quickly looking to the embroidered white tablecloth. The last time she had held her granddaughter was a year ago. She told me of how her family no longer visited and
The setting and time period of this story supports the adventurous innocence of its youthful characters, as well as enriching the story’s momentous and climactic confrontation between the forward-looking Mona, and her more traditional mother, Helen.
It was two days before Christmas, when Josephine opened the door to her 12 year old son’s room. Chay was the oldest of her four children, and the one she related to most. As Josephine sat down on the edge of the bed, Chay opened his eyes slowly. The dim light that seeped through the partially opened door revealed tears in his mother’s eyes.
It was the year 1922 and life hadn’t been this good in a while, times had taken a big change for the best. In Manhattan, New York, there were extravagant parties every weekend; the whole city shows up and doesn't leave until they see the sun. There was once this wealthy family living right in the middle of the roaring twenties. There was a mom, a dad, an older sister named Alice, and a younger sister named Anna. Alice loved to go to all of the huge parties, meet new people, and not come home until the morning. Every time Alice would get ready to go out for the night, Anna would watch her get ready as if she was picturing that was herself. Anna looked up at her sister and wanted to do everything she did. Alice had been talking about this party for a long time, and the night
Her mother, or so she imagined, was gentle with a set of blue eyes and red hair. Maddox was awfully marvelous at making a cherry pie so it became Georgiana’s favorite. She herself was a short fourth grader, just extending past the little kid stage, and exhibited her thankful nature every day. She had never heard of her father, yet longed to wonder why she did not have one. This thought occured, once she became mature. Georgiana also pondered that she had no other relatives that she had met. She was quite timid to ask Maddox, her mother, why this was so, and therefore it never happened.
She grasped my hand to release my mind from the trance. I stroked my fingertips over the wrinkles that adorned my mother’s weathered hands: the past few months had aged her greatly.
There had been enough time for something to change but almost everything was the exact same. Again Rye found herself travelling on a bus to go search for something, now knowing her brother is in fact dead she wasn 't exactly sure if what she was searching for was real. The only difference was that she now had the weight of two pre-teens. She felt it best for them to be as cautious as she had been while travelling around a decade ago. Each child had their own piece to communicate what their name was without using their words, it’s safer. Sitting on these benches Rye looked at them, the girl was the spitting image of her dead mother long curly dirty blond hair, a button nose, freckles, green eyes, and the perfect height for her age. Her was brother only slightly taller, with a darker skinned tone, and features almost exactly the opposite of his sister. The only feature similar was their hair texture. Rye would never admit this to anyone but there were times like the present that she regrets the events leading up to this very moment. The deja vu of running away except this time with hope.
She decided to look down for the rest of the walk after getting glared at by a passerby. As she was watching her feet and skipping over the cracks in the pavement, something had yanked the back of her jacket. Whipping around, Becca saw a shambled family. They were tan and soaking wet; their cardboard home shaped the background of the frightening portrait Becca was faced with. A wave of angry words, desperate words confronted her, echoing without meaning her mind. The mother of the two children fell to her knees weeping, pleading for something Becca would never exactly know. The daughter, the girl Becca realized pulled her jacket, stared at her. Dark chocolate colored eyes were melting with the heat of her pain and her brittle lips smoked with the speed of her pleading words. Becca was being pulled away unknowingly when she heard a familiar rumble coming from the pit of the girl’s stomach. And just as soon as the encounter had happened, it was over. Concern replaced the sound of desperation and she let her family know she was fine. She went back to looking at her feet. In a couple of minutes, Becca’s family arrived at the
“It is a shame that her father left her...this happened because her mother failed her job as a wife...she is so young...what was her father thinking?”, my relatives whispered as they sipped their tea. My cousin’s face turned pale like the white blanket of snow falling outside the lodge at the camp in Lake Tahoe. Her expression held so many emotions as if it was a canvas of a painting to be gazed upon. I could see that she felt frustrated and tired of these rude remarks, and all I did was just stand there and caressed the back side of her hands, so I could comfort her. Suddenly, it felt like the air had thickened so much that even a hammer could not slash it into tiny bits. My cousin had not yet known why her father left the house yesterday.
Mother Teresa once affirmed, "If you judge people, you have no time to love them." This statement rings true in the case of society who judges against Hester Prynne before she can express her nature. Throughout Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, the people of Boston are torn between a law and their own morals as they grow to see the true character of the women they've condemned and show that it is possible for her to change when they’re given the chance to examine the truth.
Though it was it shameful to admit, she struggled to remember the image of her grandmother. The more she tried to focus on it, the more it slipped away, like losing a dream after you wake up. She could feel herself losing the relationship she once had as a young girl. The sun seemed to dim in the windows and she had to wonder if it was just her imagination.
When the family got onto the Hay ride Priscilla was still in her mother’s arms. She was then put sitting up against her mother chest as we all sat down next to one another. Next to Priscilla and her mother,
“God, I miss you so much Kris,” Analeigh Remington whispered softly, standing in front of her twin sister’s headstone. Tears were quickly falling and mascara was running down her pale face as a sob escaped her lips. She didn’t attempt to hide the tears and she definitely didn’t care how she looked. Nothing really mattered. Her sister was dead! She looked up at the sky and shook her head before sitting down on the bright green grass. “I... I just want you back,” Ana cried. The fifteen year old brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs and rocking back and forth as gut wrenching sobs escaped. Today was the one day every year that she would break down without fail. Usually. Usually she was able to make it home before
Katherine waited and waited and waited for a presence, yet no one came. She flinched as if she was smitten by a sudden spasm, but continued to gaze at her surroundings. She dreamt of a naive boy full of dreams and hopes. A guiltless and innocent boy with soft, sky blue eyes that looked so indulgent, I would thrive off them. His little shorts matched his checkered red shirt and his scruffy fringes covered most of his forehead. I saw right through her just like she saw right through me. Katherine, the lonely, old woman was writing her future. Is her future hopeful? Or is it
Memories of a night smelling of freshly fallen rain, the sound of infants’ crying, and the feel of wind whipping about her and pain slicing through her body.
Josie's perspective of her grandmother changes from viewing her as nagging old women to having a loving, caring, respectful relationship with her. The narrative, which is written in first person, enables the reader to see the stages in which her perspective changes as she gains knowledge about her grandmother and also how it is her own actions that