My Childhood - Original Writing Essay

“I don’t feel so well” Jan’s father had suddenly said one morning at breakfast. Her father, a World War II veteran, stood up and went to go lie down. The rest of the family continued with their day. Michael went to see how his father was. When he tried to wake him his father didn’t respond or make a sound. The 11 year old boy was the one who first knew that his father was gone. The memory of her father’s loss is vivid in Jan’s mind. It was a substantial shock after he had survived the horrors of World War II and then just passed away quietly at home one morning. Jan now understands how

I vividly remember that chilly night in March as I walked out of Fifer, the building my father now calls home, for the first time. I had goosebumps, but they were not from the cold I felt hit my skin. Instead, they were from the sickness in my stomach. As I got in the car, I began to cry and had to stop myself from running back inside. My entire world had turned upside-down. How could I go home without my father? How could I leave him in a nursing home, a place where he was too young and mentally fit to be confined? I had to fight the feeling that he didn’t belong. I had to remind myself of why he chose to be there, and I hated it.

The summer rain of San Luis Potosí, México, made it almost impossible to go outside and enjoy the city without getting drenched, so Abuelito, Silence, and I together in one room, enjoying our second return to our hometown. He sat on his chair and I lay on the bed, calmly looking through the family albums. Bookshelves filled with books from my mother’s and uncles’ university courses and my Abuelita’s books from her teaching years covered one wall. It remained the same ever since we moved to the United States. The same TV. The same bed sheets. The only things that changed was my grandpa’s ability to walk and me. I gained height and weight and well, he has gotten older and weaker. I have lived my whole life with him by my side but do I really

Yesterday, my father took me to the flat of Irene Williams. It was a beautiful little place, with big windows looking out upon the busy street. She had lace curtains, a small pink couch made of velvet, and a birch coffee table. On the table was a jar full of biscuits and a cup of tea, still hot. She had pictures of friends, family, and relatives hung up on her walls. It’s a shame I never got to meet Irene, she seems like such a lovely person to talk to. But Irene Williams is dead, and let’s face it, dead people are boring to talk to. They never listen.

The moment I emerged from the stairway I began to stare at the man sitting in the chair across the room. This man was not the man I remembered; this man was pale, weak, and lacked motivation. He was not my grandpa: outspoken, stubborn, and jolly. However, the house had not changed one bit. There was still a cluttered mess on the table and reminisce of my departed great-grandma all throughout the house.

He underwent major back surgery which with a miracle it was a huge success and got him back on his feet. After a long recovery process from the surgery and still battling this illness we finally found out what was wrong. He is one of four people in the world to have a illness called perm disease. The best feeling in the world was when they came out and told me they have found the problem and that it was treatable. After sending his blood work all the way to London UK, they found it. It was a miracle. To look at him then I was bracing myself to say goodbye. Leaving him in the hopsital in a different city every night was tougher than imaginable. But, looking at him today it's like nothing happened he's back to normal. Through this process I talked to many doctors, nurses, family and friends.

The day was gloomy and a bit chilly−a perfect day for a funeral if that was possible−as she sat on the folding chair staring at the bronze casket a few feet from her. Ruth recalled while growing up her grandfather always treated her special and they shared many good times. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she wanted to smile knowing shortly her grandfather would be laid to rest beside the love of his life, her grandmother. Since his heart attack she had visited him daily at the Mountaineer Nursing Home. He told her stories about the ghost on Putney Mountain, the loud screams in the day and the lights at night. Sometimes he talked about the secrets of Howardsville and promised one day he would divulge them to her. However, he passed away before

“I wish my son to go back to the grave.” It had been a year since Jerold White had said those seemingly unpleasant, but altogether necessary words. Eileen White was never the same after Herbert passed away. She was distant, trying to keep herself busy with different tasks all the time.

Sister Muriel, who was also my grandmother, and who I affectionately referred to as granny, was a bit more tired than usual on the eve of December 10, 1958.  Slumber seemed to be calling early, so quietly heading toward the dorm seemed to be the best idea to take her tired body. As her feet climbed the stairs, she could feel the cool breeze against her face, and her body seemed to be a little more difficult going up these steep cement steps, there were so many of them. This evening seemed to encourage reflective thoughts, normally she had a smile for everyone, but tonight her mood a bit melancholy, but then again it could be she had a long day serving, or she missed her deceased husband, Merritt.  However, the quiet, evening allowed her to

The other day I spotted the corner of an album tucked carefully under my mother’s wedding dress in the attic. In the album I saw a photograph of Father proudly smiling in his soldier’s uniform. There were photos of Father and I tightly hugging each other, grinning at one another, and Father playfully flinging me into the air. They were all frozen, nostalgic moments in time. Tears brimmed my eyes as I recalled memories of my Father. The strong yet kind, agile face with twinkling brown eyes and bushy eyebrows was no more.

As I watched my house crumbled into a million pieces, my legs started to quiver to the point where I could no longer stand on my own two feet. Everything… everything I’d ever loved was inside: my diary, my family photos, my childhood memories. I couldn’t take the pain any more so I began to thrash around the frozen, forlorn floor like a fish on a hook. As my pupils rolled back, flashbacks rolled in. The picture of a child lying in bed while her parents read her a bedtime story replayed in my mind. Images of a primary school girl showing her parents the pictures she drew of them, as a family, wouldn’t fade away. All those memories…now gone. Forever.

We’ve just finished eating an amazing birthday dinner filled with the smell of a baking cake. With all of the closer older members of our family, that live in Elkin, North Carolina. I have to say I don’t really know many of them by name, but I’m familiar with what they look. I know it’s sad to say it like that but we don’t see them that often. I only remember them by the whitened haired wrinkled skin, lose fitting tanned colored church clothing, each taller and short. This site just isn’t normal to me. Still for today; we all came to Naomi’s home to celebrate one of the great uncles birthdays, he turned 78 today.

It’s December 17, 2002 ,5:46pm in Alberta, Canada there’s a bitter burning smell in the air as I return home to my mother. The long drive gives me time to think about the argument we had this morning and I’m full of regret of all the hurtful things we said. All because I didn’t want to discuss my father’s passing 4 years ago.

The car ride up to the local cemetery in a small town in New Jersey was as silent as the ghost of my great-aunt herself- empty and bleak. I only assumed that everyone around me was clinging onto the past memories we shared with her, feeling the shock of what we could no longer turn the pages of time back to. I could not fully imagine how my dad must have felt that somber day. He would often reminisce about the tender moments he shared with her as a spirited youth with the rest of the family, his voice always springing to life when he spoke of the past. Sitting in the back of the car, I glanced at him in the driver’s seat, peering at his eyes to notice how he seemed to be staring into another place of existence that was left untouchable to the rest of my family.

The drive to the cemetery was the complete opposite of the drive to the synagogue. There was paranoia every time my parents didn’t have a perfect view of the hearse. Shouting broke out when we had to halt at a red light. Four years later, I still haven’t suffered such a hectic car ride. Relief passed through me when we finally reached the cemetery. I was now surrounded by the semi-familiar faces from earlier that morning along with a funeral director.