Love, Your Only Mother

It felt a little like I was back outside again, my lava tears streaking down my cheeks, making my tear ducts sting. The room closed in on me and my eyes scanned the space from left to right, spinning and dancing across my mother’s concerned look. I can’t say I was angry, that I felt some predictable rage or crippling sadness. I just felt numb, untouched and untouchable. It was as if I was floating in the air, accompanied by the words my father just spoke, chasing each other around in some chaotic tornado, and yet everything around me was still. There was no feeling really, just reaching and grasping for something to be different, failing to comprehend.

Baby suggs and Sethe are both the Mother figues in beloved and despite their suffering from slavery they both cared for their children greatly. Baby Suggs and Sethe connected through Motherhood to develop a close bond. They shared the love for their children a bond that all mothers can relate with. Sethe has four children that she loves very much but she could not deal with her past of sweet home. Sethe could not bare for that to happen to her children so she had to save them from the schoolteacher and slavery by trying to kill them. She kills one child whom is referred to as beloved for what is written on her tomb stone, but fails to kill howard buglar, and Denver. Sethe motherly natural instincts caused her

Do you ever wonder if your parents raised you the right way? Are you satisfied of what you have done throughout the years with or without your parents? These questions captive a reader’s mind while reading “How to Talk to Your Mother’’. Lorrie Moore’s story has a very compelling, emotional plot where it introduces a distinctive style of writing that foreshadows events and contains melodramatic characters. It makes it interesting by presenting Virginia’s significant memories in reversible chronological order from the present day until her childhood days.

As I went downstairs the tone of the room felt hot, humid, and empty. Hot, because of the burning Atlanta temperatures of ninety-eight degrees or higher. Humid, caused by the broken air conditioning and affecting the density of the atmosphere. Finally empty. The furniture was missing and minimal sounds can bounce off to make echoes. I was departing from a place that I called home. I lived at the address 353 Leisure Court for almost a year; the identity of the street brings back smiles to my face because of its pleasantry. Living here has made me feel secure like a dog to his owner. Moving away from this security brought feelings of uncertainty. My lack of confidence was about the new beginnings my family would experience after the move. But

Crumpled newspapers scattered the table like the bones of dead bodies after war. Windows wiped down of memories huddled between oak frames, facing a street with cosy cottages. Single embroidered carpets hugged the floor, covering the marble tiles in delicate silk. A whisper of wind floated in through cracks of the panes of glass, whispering it's songs of misery throughout the house. I breathed in gulps of air, allowing the icy coolness to fill my lungs, and the morning frost creep out. My glistening blue eyes presented purple bags, and my sleek hair was a tangled cobweb. My feet dragged along the stone floor like the walking of the undead. I’d been up all night, searching and seeking for answers.

It’s so still here, so quiet, so peaceful. I walked past rows of gravestones as I finally approached the site where my relatives lay. To many, visiting their relatives in a cemetery can be a sad experience; I however, was happy for them, because they still gathered together as they had before. I smiled as I remembered those times, when I was but a child and I could just barely see over the table. I could hear their talking and laughter again. How warm and familiar it all was! I remembered how laughter would erupt after my father told a good joke – he was always telling jokes. I could even smell the feast my mother and aunts would cook for us, and could almost feel them slapping my hand as I tried to sneak a piece of turkey before the meal. I remembered sitting at the smaller table with my cousins and siblings, feeling as if I were too old to sit at the kid's table. I remembered feeling left out, as if the adults kept some kind of grown-up secret from me. That same feeling I felt again, as I stood there seeing them all lying as they used to sit, in those two long rows. Although I had grown to be an adult, they still seemed to keep some secret from me, one that I was not to know of yet, one that I am not ready yet to

……. Lonely is the hunter who, thinking of his prey, leaves his true love’s warm embrace to face the cold winter day. Then, bypassing his greatest foe – a frozen cabin door, he sets out on his endless search, uncertain what he's searching for ……. I remember the first night Lori and I spent in this apartment. Married one week, we moved to Philadelphia, excited about the start of medical school but nervous about living in a big city. On our first night in this apartment, we slept on the wooden floor under a large sleeping bag. When I think back to that night, every sense in my body experiences a Pavlovian response. I can still feel the two of us lying naked together under the sleeping bag, studying the August night through an open window as though we were seeing the moon and stars for the first

My mother’s letter also provided me with a heartfelt, long lasting goodbye. My mother returned after only a week, however, with this note, I was left with the words of love that my mother wrote on paper for me. I come from a tight knit family, so for my mother to

Today was funeral day. My mom’s funeral. It was a dark October thursday, the clouds were brewing a storm. A slight breeze disturbed my neck. My uncomfortable suit sleeves bellowed in the cold breeze.. I hadn’t felt any emotions since the day of her death, which was weeks ago, almost as if my emotion is grey. It was warm then, as my mind was too. Nowadays, up until today, my mind has been a dark fog, as if my mind was released into the sky, darkening everyone’s day, arriving at my mom’s funeral or just to cuddle up with their friends and family in front of a warm crackling fire, telling the stories of their childhood and how times were better. Not me, my dad usually ignored me and he only worked on managing my mom’s fortune. Yeah. My mom’s

Mary sat at the kitchen table staring out the window through the freezing rain at the old, rusty mailbox. It had been two weeks since her husband had left for Europe. The war was raging on and more men were needed, so her husband had joined the war effort. His final words to her were “I’ll see you again, my love.” She had read the paper that morning, and she was petrified.

I can clearly remember the last day I saw him. His heart was growing weaker and weaker as the months went by, so I started to visit him more often. I walked up the narrow dirt path up to his quaint old house. The vivid yellow roses that once covered his lawn, were all shriveled up. He was lying in bed when I came in. His face looked washed-out, and his body

I remember the day just like it was yesterday, the pale color and coldness of her skin. The sky was clear blue, soft, with a touch of red, and the trees seemed stiff in their bright green shade. The wind was blowing with its humid dry air. And All I could do was stand silently in disbelief, caught up in my own thoughts and calm as I ever been. Wondering what I could have done differently to change the course of time, life had taken us upon. Since that very day a chunk of my heart was ripped away, and broken into pieces… “Oh how I miss her so much.”

My day begins again with a drone of the same ringtone of the alarm. Getting up to open the window forgetting about the same old raven bird that stares at me with its whole black eyes sending you into a black spiral. The sense of nostalgia hits, rain leaves its own scent like the scent of an ex-lover’s. After all eternity doesn’t wait for the past to catch up, you just keep on going with your life as I have. Making my way to the kitchen I avoid all the papers on the floor scattered like a tornado threw up and shredded its life. My hands twitches to grab the phone eager to check for the ghost messages and calls. Putting down my arm as soons as it raises “don’t do it”. I turn in circles to find someone but in its leave was nothing. “ I know” I whispered to no one. The hallway was filled with darkness except for one room whose light was slowly dimming. Darting past the shadowed hands reaching for me I went into the room. Searching for that dark grey raincoat that was hung up on a hanger in the half empty closet.

A mother is someone who can take the place of all others but no one can take the place of her. There are many different definitions you could use to describe your mother. My mother, Pam Krull, fits every one of those. Today I decided to pick the three that I thought was most important to me. I admire and aspire to be like my mother because of how supportive, how selfless, and how loving she is.

Life is short and people don’t spend time with their loved ones and take them for granted. People I will always be grateful for is my sister, my dog, and my mom. I love to spend time with them and never take them for granted.