Whenever I see the desktop picture of my Grandfather’s computer, I remember the date of my new journey. It 's a pretty old photo and the background of it is a huge billboard with the phrase of “Bon Voyage” in Chinese. What’s more interesting is how the two boys in the front are expressing two totally opposite facial expressions. The older one is trying his best to hold back to his tears and the younger one is just fooling around by the travelers. The fulfilled up baggage carts and the screens of departure times are a bit inharmonious to the overall setting, but it’s the last picture before the older boy bursted into tears. I can still remember every details before and after that day. It’s a normal Tuesday morning of my summer. Unlike the any usual morning, today, I wake up with the chatter of the sparrows. As the warm orange embraces me through the French windows in my bedroom, I change into the clothes that were place on my drawer since Sunday. While I was rushing out of the house to say goodbye to my friends, I can still see the unfinished Lego on the couch since the first day of vacation, but addition to that, there are twelve colorful suit cases and some of my Grandparents’ friends in the living room. After some quick greetings and a very quick bite of breakfast, I am in the front of my best friend’s house. However, the only person that come out after my 10 minutes, unstopped pressing of doorbell is her mother. “Why are you here so early, she didn’t even wake up yet!”
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My phone’s alarm went off early in the morning; I let it play a little more as the alarm was my favorite song. Instead of being cranky by the alarm, I bumped to it. The birds chirped from all angles, the neighbor’s dogs barked at each other, while he was too busy mowing to lawn. But, I was in a terrific mood anyway. The blinds, slightly open, let bright sun rays hit my floor, while the A/C blasted. I slowly got up, and let out a loud yawn. Bones cracked at every single body joint. The pleasing aroma of coffee and the savoring smell of eggs filled up my nostrils. I put both feet down, and head to the pull-up bar where I hang on it for a few seconds, stretching out my spine. I turn my head toward the calendar to make sure today was the day. Indeed it was, reading the month of July with 2008 written in big, bold letters. Butterflies filled up my stomach with goosebumps everywhere.
I woke up and rustled all my things together and jetted down stairs. I see my mom across the room eating her favorite cereal, Lucky Charms. I slugged around the kitchen still half-awake trying to find a bowl, cereal, and milk. Then I heard a whistle and realized she had my breakfast ready on the table. I sat across from her on the table. The scent of perfume hit my nose, it smelled fruity. Her hair was combed back into a sleek bun. She was wearing a formal white shirt and a black skirt and some heels. I slurped the last of the milk as she was almost out the door. I walked outside and ran to the car. I opened the door and got inside. It was 7:59 am.
It was a bright and cool afternoon, the beginning of October. Fall, my favorite season. Leaves scattered the ground of bright scarlets, burnt oranges, and shining gold. There was a breeze that swept through the trees and sun shone through my window, into my pink carpeted bedroom which had been that way since I was 4. It was about 5:15 and my dad had gotten off work early. He was outside, grilling the family steaks. My mom was in the kitchen making some salads and cleaning the kitchen. My brother was in the living room, watching his favorite show, “Spongebob Squarepants.” It was just cool enough that we left our front door screen open so a small and sweet breeze blew through the house. I was 10 years old and in 4th grade. I enjoyed school, but
I heard the click of the lock and my mom pushed the door open. We were greeted with an excited Coco. Her tail would wag furiously from left to right, making a thumping noise against the furniture and shakes her entire body in the process. My shoulders relax, and I did not realize how good it feels to be home. My brother pushes past me. The stench coming from his dirty and ripped up football jersey made my nose wrinkle. He rushes ahead to take a shower before dinner. That’s when a familiar smell hits me. A growling noise came from deep inside my stomach, wanting to be fed after a long tiring Thursday at school.
You drive far into town, through the house you had once called home on Madison and Sixth. The new owners have repainted. It hurls the memories back at you and you allow yourself feel again—the clattering of Lego against wooden floors, his voice barreling to quieting yours, father and son playing catch on the green lawn. You allow yourself feel these things. The
I remember sitting at our dining room table, looking past the window. I wasn’t much older than eleven. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and I was bored out of my mind. I sighed, wishing there was something exciting to do. My mother told me that I should go outside and play, but I had already played at our playground what seemed like a million times already. The playground was only ten yards away from our small 800 square foot apartment, in the heart of Omaha, Nebraska. This was a convenience to some kids, but to me it was aggravating. I sat there in that wooden dining chair thinking how this summer had been one of the most uneventful summers I had ever had. I daydreamed about the summers of when I was living in Upstate New York. Ever since
My mother had left my dad’s house slippers by the coat rack behind the door. I was grateful to her as the floor felt like ice. Hanging up my coat, I slipped into my dad’s bathrobe, which was hanging on its peg. We had a fireplace in the living room and the chimney exited the west side of the roof. I smelled the smoke of the dying fire, and I knew my mom was in bed. The bedrooms were located on the second story. Her room was located at the end of the hallway, and my room was at the head of the stairs above the
Abstract: This essay reflects on the relationship of photographs, history, and memory based on a found and mutilated photo album. Photographs provide opportunities for disrupting and restructuring history with their attraction to memory; they privilege the subjective, creative power of the personal explanation and provide an emotional and even ideological grounding for memory. Photographs as manifestations of memory assist in the process of understanding the present.
I open the front door and immediately see the 20 x 30 inch portrait we had professional taken last Winter. I see Adayln’s pearly white smile, Mason’s differently colored eyes that gleam brighter than a splash of water in sunlight. Tears rush down my pale face. I walk upstairs and into Kylar’s room. I am welcomed with his scent. His favorite colon, the one from Macy’s that Dad got him on his 8th birthday. He never missed a day without it on. I go to my room and gather my most prized belongings. The blanket that all six of us made at church, the small family collision of Kylar, Mason, Adayln, and I, the beaded necklace that Mason made me for my 13th birthday, the Pandora Ring that Mommy got me when I became a teenager, and so many more prized items that I fill it three moving boxes. I am ready to leave. I walk out and see my family smiling at
You tried to go to work last week, but as soon as you leave your house you end up somewhere you should not be. On Tuesday it was the bar Rachael works at. She’s told you to stay out of that part of town. You got lost on the way home. Wednesday it was the grocery store. A woman screamed when you appeared. You left quickly. You’re not sure where you went on Friday, but it was dark and damp and smelled of rust. You curled up and cried until you found yourself back at home, crouched in the bathtub.
The weather was delightful and cold because it was winter. The the dark gray sky looked like it was about to rain soft again. The ground was still wet because it had just rained a couple days ago. We were at my grandfather’s house in Mexico. My grandfather's house was pretty nice looking from the outside. The exterior of the house was a nice light blue color and the inside was light blue. The furniture was light brown color. My dad was on the phone and my mom was washing dishes. I was walking around the town looking for things to do because I was really bored.
I can almost remember that day like it was yesterday, I awoke like on any other school day. It was a gorgeous May morning, the rays of sun flittered through my miniblinds blinding me as if I hadn’t seen light in days. I sluggishly dragged my limp body out of
The morning sunshine seeped through the cracks between my shutters, lighting up my room. I could hear the clock ticking and the rays of sunlight bouncing off of my eyelids. I barely got any sleep last night because I was ecstatic that tomorrow was, my birthday! I jumped up out of bed, how could I have forgotten that it was my birthday? Suddenly all of my drowsiness turned it into excitement and I jumped up, throwing the red gradient quilt off of my bed. I slowly walked out of my room, making very little noise, checking to see if anyone else was awake. I peeked through the intricate staircase railings and tried to spot anyone downstairs, no one was in sight. I tiptoed down the cream coloured stairs, reached the bottom and got startled when my mom yelled, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”, her voice bouncing off the walls of house. A grin so big spread across my face, I couldn’t believe I was turning four years old!
I opened my eyes after a long, energizing slumber. At first, I dreaded the upcoming school day, but I soon realized that it was Saturday. The scent of pancakes and bacon was wafting up the stairs, my family’s normal Saturday routine. I climbed out of bed and got dressed in preparation for visiting my grandmother, another weekend tradition. I stumbled quickly down the stairs, shoveled pancakes and bacon into my mouth, and ran upstairs to apply my heavy coat of teenage make-up. I turned my head and looked at the clock; the minute hand was reaching towards the bottom, no, that wasn’t right. It was only ten, I was going to Saturday Morning Bingo at ten thirty with my grandmother at the nursing home. Then I remembered: my grandmother had left that morning on a cruise around Canada and Alaska.
I was recently reminiscing whilst I had a few minutes for my mind to wander around dreaming up thoughts and memories. I came across a mementos day I recalled from not so long ago. Just as I was to finish my thought, the telephone rang like a baby shrieking in its cradle. As my sisters voice came blaring through the receiver, she was clearly in no mood for recalling past fun. Her questions came all at once about washing powder. Something clearly a student studying medicine couldn’t make sense of. After she’d abruptly finished ‘her’ conversation I was back to thinking of the sights and smells of London city.