Reunion : Reunited - Original Writing

On Feb. 24, 2017, I lost Sean, and my wife,Sandra, in a car crash. It was a dark, rainy evening when the accident happened. Sandra had called to let me know that she had gotten off work early and said she could pick up our son, Sean, from soccer practice. I insisted on picking him up, but Sandra said it would be better if I were to stay with our sixteen month old daughter, Summer. After thirty minutes, I called them. Sandra answered the phone to tell me that she picked up Sean, but all of a sudden, I heard a crash, and then the call went silent. “Sandra?” I said quietly, and there was no reply. I yelled “Sandra?!” Yet, there was no reply, until I heard the siren of a fire truck. Suddenly, my entire world started collapsing.

Narrator's in stories are the characters, if they happen to be characters that influence reader's the most. The narrator lays out all the information to us as they see it and they tell the story how they want it to be heard. Although they are telling the story from their point of view, it is our job as readers to interpret, that what they are telling us is fair an just. Some narrator's often won't tell the whole story, but just what they want you to hear. In John Cheever's, Reunion the narrator, Charlie is a narrator that cannot be trusted. He is very critical and unfair to his father and wants the reader to think that his father is a failure, not only as a father, but as a person in general.

I have been haunted by some of the letters I receive, especially lately. Some people send letters that I respond to but I never hear back. Some write back and update me on how they’re doing (both good and bad). And still others — ones like this — get under my skin. I’m angry and saddened; I’ve actually cried for this young man whom I have never met, and I’ve felt his pain and the pain of the parents and loved ones who had to bury him this

“Dear John, in my restless dreams I see that town called Wakefield, you know how much I loved that town, you said you would take me there again some day, but you never did. I’m here now waiting for you in our special place. Sincerely, Carol”

I asked Otis to tell me about what is going on. Otis said his daughter is sick and they do not know what is causing it. Otis said he is frustrated because ever since he arrived at St. John’s Hospital, the nurses have ignored him and even said they won’t tell him any information until the mother of the child arrives. Otis said he rode in the ambulance with Oddesty, but they won’t tell him anything that is going on with his daughter. I asked Otis if the hospital knew that he is the biological father and not just mom’s boyfriend. Otis said he would assume they knew. I explained that might have been the reason for them not providing you with information.

The battery on my phone was low and I chose not to write her back. A few hours later I received a call from her friend Courtney, Courtney was hysterical “What’s wrong”? I kept asking Courtney if she was okay. She responded real quietly and said “Makayla was in a car accident.” My heart broke into a million pieces I could not believe what I was hearing. I asked if Makayla was okay Courtney remained silent. I asked her again and she said: “She’s dead.” I did not believe what I was hearing. It was extremely hard difficult to comprehend that my dear friend Makayla was dead. I was trying not to cry in front of my family: however, they knew I received bad news. I told them the news I heard and they could not believe it my mom could not hold her tears back, but I knew we had to get home soon so I could be alone. My family and I were on our way home, we were traveling and started over heating it took forever to get home. My boyfriend called and I told him the news and he could not believe it either. How could a nineteen year old be dead? She was to young to die. Her family cremated her remains. Makayla was given a celebration of life. Many people came and talked kindly of

“No worries,” the man replies, “Can’t have you keeling over again, gesturing me a flirty wink.” “Name’s Jack”, shaking my hand in a firm grip. “Ellie,” I reply, still flabbergasted that this is truly happening… I haven’t spoken to a different man since my previous life. Unless you count the guy at the post office… So I promised myself one thing in this life. That I won’t meet the man that concluded me becoming a crumbling, emotional mess. But then again, I can’t make any new flipping decisions! Maybe all this was meant to happen…

So in that extra ten minutes that I had stepped on to the freezing cold hardwood floor and ran to my bathroom to get ready. I could already smell the crispy bacon and scrambled eggs that I was going to have with my mom. After we finished we stepped out the door, and pulled into John Bluff’s High school. Where my best friend in the whole world Riley Ackerman was waiting for me in her dark blue jean shorts, and a purple striped shirt. While Riley and I were walking and talking down the hallway of lockers we saw someone. Someone that I don't think that I have seen before. Riley leaned over to me and said that his name was Justin

Several times during the night most of the day I contemplating calling and request you come to the hospital. her heart stop three time and had to resuscitated. With all due respect I felt I couldn't put you through that.

“You suck” it read. Two words. That was all it took. Two simple words were all it took to tear me down. Who would write such a thing? Who would want to tell somebody that they had no worth, that they had no place in this world? Tears. Sobbing. A dam broke and water gushed down my face uncontrollably. An arm found its way around my shoulders to guide me to a safe haven. The note burned in my hand. I wanted to rip it. I wanted to tear it and destroy it like it had torn through my soul. I wanted to run and not stop until I was miles away from anyone who could hurt me. I wanted to disappear from that girls’ camp and never be found by those people again. Words could not penetrate the wall I was building. Hugs were not enough to comfort me. All day I tried to hide the hurt, tried to bury it behind layers of masks. How could one simple note in the mail do so much damage?

“There is no excuse for allowing what we have allowed to transpire but it is war, casualties are to be expected and the fact is we did need to find you. I do not believe you will be the panacea as some do, but you will do good, I'm sure.”

That’s all he’d bothered to write. No explanation or answers for the cryptic two word note. I lay awake all last night as Mom screamed and cried in the room down the hall. My little brother Connor has barely spoken since it happens. That leaves me to plan most of the funeral, try to sort through wills, and deal with relatives.

On December 27th, 2014, I was in my basement watching animated comedy shorts on YouTube called Cyanide and Happiness with my cousin Ali. Ali was from my mother’s side of the family so he didn’t know Nannie or any of those relatives. I received a call from my cousin Tyler, Jim Randy’s son. Since we were close I answered in casual form. I answered with “What’s up?” to which I was met with a shaky voice, sniffling with tears asking where my dad was. I ran up the stairs and gave the phone to my dad. After the conversation ceased, my dad returned my phone informing me that Nannie had a stroke. I was devastated but I knew she was tough and would survive.

I am conscious of my own facial expression and I feel like I am not reacting properly to this news. What should I be feeling? Should I be crying? I feel somber but not at all devastated. I worry that I’m coming across uncaring. I look at my parents again. They seem fine too. I figure it must just be the inevitability of the situation. She was 103 after all. We all knew in the backs of our minds that this was coming. The call ends and I stand up and take another deep breath. For a moment there is a weight in my chest.

I had planned all of it. A note was pre-written, safely tucked away in my desk drawer. It pained me, writing that letter might 've been the hardest thing I had ever do This would be what people remembered me from. The last one-sided conversation scrawled onto compressed, bleached wood that would have to suffice my last words. The words that would stick with me forever. Nothing I had written seemed enough, enough to console my family when they eventually found it. To convince them it was better this way. In