Personal Narrative: Mrs. Jackson

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Even when the sky cried, the town was perfect. The weekly manicured grass welcomed the unexpected warm summer rain. Rainbows of chalk drawings washed away in dark pools, and even with whole world seemingly turning dark, the perfect white trim on the houses shown, and the old gas street lights illuminated the pristine street. In the beige house, behind the white picket fence and the red door gathered a group of APT moms in the kitchen, hosting weekly book club. My sad reflection in the window stared back at me, visible to no one. I laughed quietly to myself when I saw the very familiar group. Making small talk at the head of the table was Mrs. Jackson, I had gone to school with her son forever. Funny, I didn’t see her at the funeral. Chipping away at her manicure was Mrs. Webster, our conservative Girl Scout leader whose daughter Lillian never liked me much. It was a quite diverse group, some sporting intricate hairdos thick with hairspray and pins, sipping their soy lattes perfectly poised, conversing only slightly…show more content…
She looked so small, so defeated and it was all because of me. Her enthusiasm for reading dampened, the light behind her eyes dim. Like the worst type of criminal stealing bread from the poor, I had stolen the burning passion for education my mother had once possessed. She was innocent, but I was not. With no makeup to conceal them, sleepless bags under her eyes stood out on her pale face. She appeared delicate, a word that before the accident I would have never used in relation to my mother. The terrible ocean of grief pulled back it’s debilitating waves, leaving salty tears clinging to my face. The stream of emotion pulled back with it whatever positive attitude I had. In its place was left hatred like no other. A hated for the world, hatred for myself. I didn’t want to watch this anymore, I couldn’t bare to look, unable to lay eyes on the life I had ruined by destroying my
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