Personal Narrative

Decent Essays

It is a wintry fall, mid-October, 1868. I stood beside the tree where my parents decided to marry for the second time. My father is said to be a blinded scoundrel, he had been married once before. This tree means a lot to me too. It is where my friend, Roy, and I used to play. Roy was the closest with me since I never had brothers or sisters. Now, play is lost, it was at least two years ago. I am eighteen. Soon to be married and having to leave dear Ferndean behind me. The shutters, the ivy, and even my old brown cat, he certainly could not be fed by a minister’s wife. My mother is apprehensive and my father utterly distraught, however, I am at peace. Timothy Cromwell is a kind man. He knows only two emotions, thought and gentility. He finds tasks such as darning socks as pleasant as I find piano. Perhaps a third of my charm comes from the ability to play, although that and modesty are probably what primarily hold his interest. The organ will never need another once the marriage commences. “Hattie!” my mother’s voice calls, “Why don’t you come in and make your father some tea.” He needed me sometimes. I swept down the hill and into the kitchen where Nigel (the cat) was lounging by the stove. Earl Grey, the only leaf that stood the test of a tormented man’s scrutiny. I brought some up to …show more content…

He adored my mother. They would hold hands while I played. None of the tunes had words, yet to me each had a very specific story. This one was about elves and gipsies who gathered cowslips and drove travelers deep into the woods. My father doses off and my mother lays a hand on my shoulder, I quietly depart. Once in my room I look through my mother’s drawings. They are bound so I can flip through them like a book. Both my mother and I enjoy wordless stories. My favorite one of mother’s is of a beautiful woman with long rich hair and olive skin. It looked like my mother spent hours on

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Personal Narrative