Upon hearing the news of his death I immediately sped to his apartment. When I drove up, I saw his mom, surrounded by firefighters and police officers outside of the apartment complex. She was hurled over with her hands on her face, choking on her tears, unable to speak. The sight of her like that made the hair on my arms stand straight, and my throat felt like it was closing in as my eyes welled up in panic of what might really be happening.
The ride home was much different than the ride to the hospital, Mrs. Girroir reminisced about all the good and the bad times they shared. She told me how he served in the U.S. Army during the Korean War and got several Medals of Honor. She told me the story of how they met in Honduras while he was stationed there. She grinned as she explained how he told her father he would marry her before they even spoke to one another. He was a very confident man, very romantic, yet stubborn and sarcastic. I glanced in the rearview mirror at the girls and saw them smiling listening intently to their mothers stories. The mood was no longer melancholy but lighthearted almost mirthful. We attended the funeral, Janice and I. We had become a part of their family, experienced both sorrow and pain alongside them.
Communication Edwidge Danticat’s remarkable book, Brother, I’m Dying, engages the audience on a sensational journey on experiencing death in its most sporadic state, but like a Phoenix, life is restored through the next generation of their family. Danticat deals with her communication barriers through understanding her father’s undertones, translating for her uncle, and writing for herself. These coping methods make her writing style unique, but more importantly credible. Edwidge spent the majority of her youth deciphering her father’s emotions out of the letters he sent. His living in America and the children in Haiti created and uneasy and limited communication between them.
Death is a very controversial subject. Many argue that it is a terrible phenomenon in life, while others argue for its necessity. One kind of death, however, most would argue against. The death of a child. Something so dreaded it has become a sort of taboo to Western society. Death is a very curious thing, it may take some, while it leaves others. Sometimes it can be surprising, while other times expected. While death may be one of the most inexplicable and confusing phenomena that our world has to offer, there is one certainty, and that is that death is inevitable. As a child, I always knew this to be fact, though I never really saw the effects of it, until I was
My clammy palms clasped the wooden arm of a plush, pink chair. The crisp air of the empty hall sent chills up my spine. Beaming lights engulfed the room. My heart felt dense. I could see my chest compress and decompress with every erratic beat and arrhythmic dance. Nerves jolted through my body. My mother squeezed my skeletal hand as she sat
Warily, I walked over to where my father was standing right outside the school, waiting for Cole and I, when I saw he had shades on, I knew for sure that something was wrong, due to the fact he never wore shades. When we were to the pick-up my whole family was in there. Noticing, when I jumped in the pick-up, my mother also had shades on. Anxiously, I sat there attentively for the longest second of my life, then my father stammered to us that grandfather had passed away. Countless emotions were running through me, overwhelmed; I didn’t know what to think, raving; owing to they said he was going to be adequate, grieving; due to I didn’t get to talk t6o my grandfather before he passed
Mortality is described beautifully by the young child in which allows for the reader to view death in a positive manner. The author’s view of mortality is that death should not be seen a finality, but rather death should be interpreted in a positive light and embrace those who have passed by keeping them alive in
Everyone exclaimed over what a beautiful baby he was and he truly was beautiful. He had beautiful deep blue eyes the color of the ocean and light brown soft baby hair. He was a chubby happy baby. But even as I held him that night I knew he was already looking beyond the veil. Call it a premonition or a grandmother’s sense, I just knew that he no longer belonged to us but to something greater. The party was a resounding success and everyone left to sounds of laughter, I love you and promises to get together more often. Little did everyone know that would be the next day to plan a funeral?
I walked into the room on New Year’s Day and felt a sudden twinge of fear. My eyes already hurt from the tears I had shed and those tears would not stop even then the last viewing before we had to leave. She lay quietly on the bed with her face as void of emotion as a sheet of paper without the writing. Slowly, I approached the cold lifeless form that was once my mother and gave her a goodbye kiss.
Death is an ending that everyone has to endure. I was in the concrete operations stage of cognitive development when I have had encountered my papa’s and uncle’s death. Unlike the story when listened to when the young boy was in the pre-operations, I fully understood the concept of death (Hill). When I was in 7th grade, I lost my papa in a week span of developing Emphyasema. When I was that age, I understood that my papa was sick and that his wishes were to never be on life support. My family followed his wishes. I remember there being our priest being there but I was not sure why he would be there since my papa did not believe in going to church. I noticed many relationships among my family change after my papa’s death. I remember seeing how
I follow the whispers and saw my mother in tears again. She told me that I have a heart condition but not fatal. I walked away and said nothing. The doctor 's hunch was right, no wonder why they are professionals. I heard my mother sniffling because she lost her younger brother because of a heart attack. He was 23 years old and his heart mysteriously stopped. I started to question myself if I was next, was this my destiny? I repeated the same questions over and over. I couldn’t imagine my mother burying my uncle but burying her own son will kill her.
I stare at the black bolded words as laughter escapes from my mouth and the room starts to spin. I keep staring at the text and felt a snap, and a wave of grief took over as my phone gets blurrier and blurrier. Not noticing the tears streaming down my face I look up and realize I didn’t get to say my goodbyes. I just couldn’t believe the text. I read it once again, “She’s dead.”
Late night phone calls never end well, and this one was no exception. My mom answered the shrill ring of the landline early one Wednesday morning and was greeted by her sisters solemn voice. Aunt Mary told her that their mother wasn’t able to swallow food anymore; an obvious problem that had all the more meaning to her. Barely a month before, grandma’s sister, my Great Aunt Maureen, after a long period of declining health, quickly passed away after loosing her ability to swallow. It seemed that grandma would follow her sister’s example. Mom hung up the phone, the weight of the world settling around her shoulders, and booked a flight for the small Irish town she grew up in.
In spite of this painful occurrence happening to me at twenty-four years of age, emotions such as shock, anger, and guilt, came into play creating chaos. I rerun her death in my mind, yet unable to completely forget the sadness, similar to a synopsis. These feelings can be frightening and overwhelming; however I have learned how to cope and with the realization that life and death are phenomenal both intertwined. I speculate that